He was interrupted by the tent flap swishing aside. High Fist Dujek Onearm entered, the soap of his morning shave still clotting the hair in his ears, the smell of cinnamon water wafting after him.
Over the years, Tattersail had come to attach much to that aroma.
Security, stability, sanity. Dujek Onearm represented all those things, and not just to her but to the army that fought for him. As he stopped now in the centre of the room and surveyed the three mages, she leaned back slightly and, from under heavy lids, studied the High Fist. Three years of enforced passivity in this siege seemed to have acted like a tonic on the ageing man. He looked more like fifty rather than his seventy-nine years. His grey eyes remained sharp and unyielding in his tanned, lean face. He stood straight, which made him seem taller than his five and a half feet, wearing simple, unadorned leathers, stained as much by sweat as by the Imperial magenta dye. The stump of his left arm, just below the shoulder, was wrapped in leather strips. His hairy chalk-white calves were visible between the sharkskin straps of the Napan sandals.
Calot withdrew a handkerchief from his sleeve and tossed it to Dujek.
The High Mage snagged it. “Again? Damn that barber,” he growled, wiping the soap from his jaw and ears. “I swear he does it on purpose.”
He balled the handkerchief and flung it on to Calot's lap. “Now, we're all here. Good. Regular business first. Hairlock, you finished jawing with the boys below?”
Hairlock stifled a yawn. “Some sapper named Fiddler took me in, showed me around.” He paused to pluck lint from his brocaded sleeve, then met Dujek's eyes. “Give them six or seven years and they might have reached the city walls by then.”
“It's pointless,” Tattersail said, “which is what I put in my report.” She squinted up at Dujek. “Assuming it ever made it to the Imperial Court.”
“Camel's still swimming,” Calot said.
Dujek grunted-as close as he ever got to laughing. “All right, cadre, listen carefully. Two things.” A faint scowl crossed his scarred features.
“One, the Empress has sent a Claw. They're in the city, hunting down Pale's wizards.”
A chill danced up Tattersail's spine. No one liked having the Claws around. Those Imperial assassins-Laseen's favoured weapon-kept their poisoned daggers sharp for anyone and everyone, Malazans included.
It seemed Calot was thinking the same thing, for he sat up sharply. “If they're here for any other reason:”
“They'll have to come through me first,” Dujek said, his lone hand reaching down to rest on the pommel of his longsword.
He has an audience, there in the other room. He's telling the man commanding the Claw how things stand. Shedunul bless him.
Hairlock spoke. “They'll go to ground. They're wizards, not idiots.”
It was a moment before Tattersail understood the man's comment. Oh, right. Pale's wizards.
Dujek glanced down at Hairlock, gauging, then he nodded. “Two, we're attacking Moon's Spawn today.”
In the other compartment, High Mage Tayschrenn turned at these words and approached slowly. Within his hood a broad smile creased his dark face, a momentary cracking of seamless features. The smile passed quickly, the ageless skin becoming smooth once again. “Hello, my colleagues,” he said, droll and menacing all at once.
Hairlock snorted. “Keep the melodrama to a minimum, Tayschrenn, and we'll all be happier.”
Ignoring Hairlock's comment, the High Mage continued, “The Empress has lost her patience with Moon's Spawn-”
Dujek cocked his head and interrupted, his voice softly grating. “The Empress is scared enough to hit first and hit hard. Tell it plain, Magicker. This is your front line you're talking to here. Show some respect, dammit.”
The High Mage shrugged. “Of course, High Fist.” He faced the cadre.
“Your group, myself and three other High Mages will strike Moon's Spawn within the hour. The North Campaign has drawn most of the edifice's inhabitants away. We believe that the Moon's lord is alone. For almost three years his mere presence has been enough to hold us in check. This morning, my colleagues, we will test this lord's mettle.”
“And hope to hell he's been bluffing all this time,” Dujek added, a scowl deepening the lines on his forehead. “Any questions?”
“How soon can I get a transfer?” Calot asked.
Tattersail cleared her throat. “What do we know about the Lord of Moon's Spawn?”
“Scant little, I'm afraid,” Tayschrenn said, his eyes veiled. “A Tiste And? for certain. An archmage.”