Tattersail slumped, then leaned to one side and vomited on the floor.
A chaotic Warren swirled in the room, a miasma that churned into her like riotous pestilence. It radiated from Hairlock in visible pulses of grainy grey shot through with black.
The Hound eyed Hairlock, its sides heaving. It was as if it was trying to dispel the waves of power from its brain. A low growl rumbled in its chest-its first sound. The wide head sagged.
Tattersail stared, then understanding struck a hammer blow to her chest. “Hound!” she screamed. “He's reaching for your soul! Escape! Get out of here!”
The beast's growl deepened, but it did not move.
None of the three noticed the door to the inner bedroom opening off to the left, or the halting appearance of Captain Paran, wrapped in the colourless woollen blanket that covered him down to his ankles. Pale and drawn, the man moved forward, a blank cast to his eyes, which were fixed on the Hound. As the invisible battle of wills continued between Gear and Hairlock, Paran stepped closer.
The movement caught Tattersail's eye. She opened her mouth to shout a warning, but Paran moved first. The blanket parted to reveal a longsword, point flashing outward as he extended into a full lunge. The sword sank into Gear's chest, even as the man leaped back, withdrawing the lunge, twisting the weapon as he pulled it clear. A bellow thundered from Gear's throat. The Hound staggered back into the ruins of the bed, biting at the wound gushing blood from its side.
Hairlock screamed in rage and jumped forward, closing in on Gear.
Tattersail scythed one foot into the puppet's path, flinging him against the far wall.
Gear howled. A dark rift opened around him with the sound of tearing burlap. He whirled and plunged into the deepening shadow. The rent closed and was gone, leaving in its wake a rippling of cold air.
Astonished beyond her pain, Tattersail swung her attention to Captain Paran and the bloodied sword in his hands. “How?” she gasped. “How could you have pierced the Hound's magic? Your sword-”
The captain looked down at it. “Just lucky, I suppose.”
“Oponn!” Hairlock hissed, as he regained his feet, and glared at Tattersail. “Hood's Curse on the Fools! And you, woman, this I'll not forget. You will pay-I swear it!” Tattersail looked away and sighed. A smile touched her lips as words uttered earlier now returned with new, grim meaning. “You'll be too busy staying alive, Hairlock, to start on me. You've given Shadowthrone something to think about. And you'll live to regret his attention, puppet. Deny that if you dare.”
“I'm returning to my box,” Hairlock said, scrambling. “Expect Tayschrenn here in minutes. You'll say nothing, Sorceress.” He clambered inside. “Nothing.” The lid slammed shut.
Tattersail's smile broadened, the taste of blood in her mouth like an omen, a silent, visible warning to Hairlock of things to come-a warning she knew he couldn't see. That made the taste almost sweet.
She tried to move, but it seemed that a chill had come to her limbs.
Within her mind visions floated, but walls of darkness closed in around them before they could register. She felt herself fading.
A man's voice spoke close by, urgent. “What do you hear?”
She frowned, trying to concentrate. Then she smiled. “A spinning coin. I hear a spinning coin.”
BOOK TWO DARUJHISTAN
What windfall has brushed our senses?
This rocking thunderhead that scraped the lake's placid waters and spun a single day's shadows like a wheel that rolled us from dawn to dusk, while we tottered our tender ways:
What windlass crackles dire warnings?
There in the gentle swells that tossed a bobbing cork our way with its fine magenta scent wafting like a panoply of petals that might be ashes in twilight's crimson smear:
Rumour Born Fisher (b.?)
CHAPTER FIVE
And if this man sees you in his dreams while you rock in the season's brooding night “neath a tree's stout branch, and your shadow is hooded above the knotted rope, so will the winds of his passing twitch your stiffened limbs into some semblance of running 907th Year in e Third Millennill Rumour Born Fisher (b.?)
The Season of Fanderay in the year of the Five Tusks Two thousand years since the birth of Darujbistan, the city
In his dream the small round man found himself leaving the city of Darujhistan through Two Ox Gate as he headed towards the setting sun. The tattered tails of his faded red waistcoat flapped in his haste.
He had no idea how far he would have to walk. Already his feet ached.
There were miseries in the world, and then there was misery. In times of conscience he held the world's concerns above his own. Fortunately, he reflected, such times were few, and this, he told himself, was not one of them.
