Tattersail's limbs ached. She felt as though someone had been beating her with clubs for the past two hours. The last thing she had expected was that bitter taste on her tongue that said something nasty and ugly had come to the hilltop. Such warnings seldom came to a practitioner unless the gate was open, a Warren unveiled and bristling with power.

She'd heard tales from other sorcerers, and she'd read mouldy scrolls that touched on moments like these, when the power arrived groaning and deadly, and each time, it was said, a god had stepped on to the mortal ground.

If she could have driven the nail of immortal presence in this place, however, it would have to be Hood, the God of Death. Yet her instincts said no. She didn't believe a god had arrived, but something else had.

What frustrated the sorceress was that she couldn't decide who among the people surrounding her was the dangerous one. Something kept drawing her gaze back to the young girl. But the child seemed only half there most of the time.

The voices behind her finally drew her attention. Sergeant Whiskeyjack stood over Quick Ben and the other soldier, both of whom still knelt at Hairlock's side. Quick Ben clutched an oblong object, wrapped in hides, and was looking up at his sergeant as if awaiting approval.

There was tension between the two men. Frowning, Tattersail walked over. «What are you doing?» she asked Quick Ben, her eyes on the object in the wizard's almost feminine hands. He seemed not to have heard, his eyes on the sergeant.

Whiskeyjack shot her a glance. «Go ahead, Quick,» he growled, then strode off to stand at the hill's edge, facing west-towards the Moranth Mountains.

Quick Ben's fine, ascetic features tightened. He nodded at his companion. «Get ready, Kalam.»

The soldier named Kalam leaned back on his haunches, his hands in his sleeves. The position seemed an odd response to Quick Ben's request, but the mage seemed satisfied. Tattersail watched as he laid one of his thin, spidery hands on Hairlock's trembling, blood-splashed chest. He whispered a few chaining words and closed his eyes.

«That sounded like Denul,» Tattersail said, glancing at Kalam, who remained motionless in his crouch. «But not quite,» she added slowly.

«He's twisted it somehow.» She fell silent then, seeing something in Kalam that reminded her of a snake waiting to strike. Wouldn't take much to set him off, I think. Just a few more ill-timed words, a careless move towards Quick Ben or Hairlock. The man was big, bearish, but she remembered his dangerous glide past her. Snake indeed, the man's a killer, a soldier who's reached the next level in the art of murder Not just a job any more, this man likes it. She wondered then if it wasn't this energy, this quiet promise of menace, that swept over her with the flavour of sexual tension. Tattersail sighed. A day for perversity.

Quick Ben had resumed his chaining words, this time over the object, which he now set down beside Hairlock. She watched as enwreathing power enveloped the wrapped object, watched in growing apprehension as the mage traced his long fingers along the hide's seams. The energy trickled from him with absolute control. He was her superior in the lore.

He had opened a Warren she didn't even recognize.

«Who are you people?» she whispered, stepping back.

Hairlock's eyes snapped open, clear of pain and shock. His gaze found Tattersail and the stained smile came easily to his broken lips. «Lost arts, «Sail. What you're about to see hasn't been done in a thousand 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 mind that had laboured 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, wornan!»

«Quiet,» Quick Ben said. He laid down the object on the wizard's ravaged chest, positioning it carefully so that it was centred 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 slight in size; parts of it moved and against her grip she felt knobs and shafts of something hard. She stared at the assassin's bearish face. «I want,» she said slowly, «to see Tayschrenn get what he deserves.»

«Then we're in agreement,» Kalam said, smiling. «This is where it starts.»

Tattersail felt her stomach jump at that smile. Woman, what's got into you? She sighed. «Done.» As she turned away to descend the slope and make her way back to the main camp, she caught the girl's eye. A chill rippled through her. The sorceress stopped. «You, recruit,» she called. «What's your name?»