"Odd," Quick Ben said,"and revealing, if you know what you're looking for.
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Tattersail smiled to herself. These two men had a way of talking in tandem. She returned her attention to the wizard, who continued.
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"Seems a company of cavalry hit some hard luck. No survivors. As for what they ran into, it had something to do with—"
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"Dogs," Kalam finished without missing a beat.
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The sorceress frowned at the assassin.
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"Put it together," Quick Ben said, drawing her attention once again. "Adjunct Lorn is Laseen's personal mage-killer. Her arrival on the scene suggests sorcery was involved in the massacre. High sorcery." The wizard's gaze narrowed on Tattersail and he waited.
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She swallowed another mouthful of wine. The Fatid showed me. Dogs and sorcery. Into her mind returned the image of the Rope as she had seen it in the reading. High House Shadow, ruled by Shadow-throne and the Rope, and in their service- "The Seven Hounds of Shadow." She looked to Whiskey-jack but the sergeant's eyes remained downcast, his expression blank as stone.
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"Good," Quick Ben snapped, somewhat impatiently. "The Hounds hunted. That's our guess, but it's a good one. The Nineteenth Regiment of the Eighth Cavalry were all killed, even their horses. A league's worth of coastline settlements needed repopulating."
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"Fine." Tattersail sighed. "But what does this have to do with Sorry?"
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The wizard turned away and Kalam spoke. "Hairlock's going to follow more than just one trail, Sorceress. We're pretty sure Sorry is somehow involved with House Shadow . . ."
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"It certainly seems," Tattersail said, "that since its arrival in the Deck and the opening of its Warren, Shadow's path crosses the Empire's far too often to be accidental. Why should the Warren between Light and Dark display such . . . obsession with the Malazan Empire?"
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Kalam's gaze was veiled. "Odd, isn't it? After all, the Warren only appeared following the Emperor's assassination at Laseen's hand. Shadowthrone and his companion the Patron of Assassins-Cotillion were unheard of before Kellanved and Dancer's deaths. It also seems that whatever. disagreement there is between House Shadow and Empress Laseen is, uhm, personal . . ."
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Tattersail closed her eyes. Dammit, it's that obvious, isn't it? "Quick Ben," she said,"hasn't there always been an accessible Warren of Shadow? Meanas, the Warren of Illusions?"
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"Meanas is a false Warren, Sorceress. A shadow of what it claims to represent, if you'll excuse my wording. It is itself an illusion. The gods alone know where it came from, or who created it in the first place, or even why. But the true Warren of Shadow has been closed, inaccessible for millennia, until the 1154th year of Burn's Sleep, nine years ago. The earliest writings of House Shadow seemed to indicate that its throne was occupied by a Tiste Edur.—-"
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Tiste Edur?" Tattersail interrupted.
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"Who were they?"
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The wizard shrugged. "Cousins of the Tiste Andii? I don't know, Sorceress."
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You don't know? Actually, it seems you know a whole lot.
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Quick Ben shrugged to punctuate his last words, then he added, "In any case, we believe Sorry is connected with House Shadow."
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Whiskeyjack startled everyone by surging to his feet. "I'm not convinced," he said, throwing Quick Ben a glare that told Tattersail there had been countless arguments over this issue. "Sorry likes killing, and having her around is like having spiders down your shirt. I know all that, I can see it and feel
it the same as any of you. It doesn't mean she's some kind of demon." He turned to face Kalam. "She kills like you do, Kalam. You've both got ice in your veins. So what? I look at you and I see a man because that's what men are capable of~I don't hunt for excuses because I don't like to think that that's how nasty we can get. We look at Sorry and we see reflections of ourselves. Hood take it, if we don't like what we see.
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He sat down just as abruptly as he had risen, and reached for the wine jug. When he continued his voice had dropped a notch. "That is my opinion, anyway. I'm no expert on demons but I've seen enough mortal men and women act like demons, given the need. My squad's wizard is scared witless by a fifteen-year-old girl. My assassin slips a knife into his palm whenever she's within twenty paces of him. " He met Tattersail's eyes. "So, Hairlock has two missions instead of one, and if you think Quick Ben and Kalam are correct in their suspicions you can walk from all this—-. I know how things go when gods step into the fray." The lines around his eyes tightened momentarily, a replaying of memories. know," he whispered.
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Tattersail slowly let out her breath, which she had been holding since the sergeant first rose to his feet. His needs were clear to her now: he wanted Sorry to be just human, just a girl twisted hard by a hard world. Because that was something he understood, something he could deal with. "Back in Seven Cities, she said quietly, "the story goes that the Emperor's First Sword--his commander of his armies--Dassem Ultor, had accepted a god's offer. Hood made Dassem his Knight of Death. Then something happened, something went . . . wrong. And Dassem renounced the title, swore a vow of vengeance against Hood-against the Lord of Death himself. All at once other Ascendants started meddling, manipulating events. It all culminated with Dassem's murder, then the Emperor's assassination, and blood in the streets, temples at war, sorceries unleashed." She paused, seeing the memories of those times reflected in Whiskeyjack's face. "You were there." And you don't want it to happen again, here and now. You. think if you can deny that Sorry serves Shadow your conviction will be enough to shape reality. You need to believe that to save your sanity, because there are some things in life that you can go through only once. Oh, Whiskeyjack, I can't ease your burden. You see, think Quick Ben and Kalam are right. "If Shadow has claimed the girl, the trail will be evident——Hairlock will find it."
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"Do you walk away from this?" the sergeant asked.
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Tattersail smiled. "The only death I fear is dying ignorant. No, is my answer." Brave words, woman. These people have a way of bringing out the best or maybe the worst--in me.
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Something glittered in Whiskeyjack's eyes, and he nodded. "So that's that," he said gruffly. He leaned back. "What's on your mind, Fiddler?" he asked the sapper, who was still pacing behind him.
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"Got a bad feeling," the man muttered. "Something's wrong. Not here, though, but close by. It's just-" He stopped, cocking his head, then he sighed, resuming his uneasy walk. "Not sure, not sure."
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