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It was now Tattersail's turn to be impressed. The High Mage was an Adept, then. Had he, too, heard the laughter punctuating the laying of the field? She hoped not. “You might be right,” she said. “The Virgin's face is ever changing-it could be anyone. Can't say the same for Oponn, or the Rope's.” She nodded. “A very possible deception,” she said, pleased to be conversing with an equal-a truth that made her grimace inwardly.

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“I would hear your thoughts,” Tayschrenn said.

Tattersail started, shied from the High Mage's steady gaze. She began collecting the cards. Would it hurt to offer some explanation? If anything, it will leave him even more rattled than be already is. “Deception is the Patron Assassin's forte. I sensed nothing of his presumed master, Shadowthrone himself. Makes me suspect the Rope is on his own here. Beware the Assassin, High Mage, if anything his games are even more subtle than Shadowthrone's. And while Oponn plays their own version, it remains the same game, and that game is being played out in our world. The Twins of Luck have no control in Shadow's Realm, and Shadow is a Warren known for slipping its boundaries. For breaking the rules.”

“True enough,” Tayschrenn said, rising to his feet with a grunt. “The birth of that bastard realm has ever troubled me.”

“It's young yet,” Tattersail said. She picked up her Deck and returned it to the pocket inside her cloak. “Its final shaping is still centuries away, and it may never happen. Recall other new Houses that ended up dying a quick death.”

“This one stinks of too much power.” Tayschrenn returned to his study of the Moranth Mountains. “My gratitude,” he said, as Tattersail went to the steps leading down into the city, “is worth something, I hope. In any case, Sorceress, you have it.”

Tattersail hesitated at the landing, then began the descent. He'd be less magnanimous if he found out that she had just misled him. She could guess the Virgin's identity. Her thoughts travelled back to the moment of the Virgin's appearance. The horses she had heard, passing beneath, hadn't been an illusion. Whiskeyjack's squad had just entered the city, through the gate below. And among them rode Sorry. Coincidence?

Maybe, but she didn't think so. The Spinning Coin had faintly wobbled at that instant, then its ringing returned. Though she heard it in her mind day and night, it had become almost second nature, and Tattersail found she had to concentrate to find it. But she'd caught the nudge, felt the pitch change and sensed a brief instant of uncertainty.

Death's Virgin, and the Assassin of High House Shadow. There was a connection there, somehow, and it bothered Oponn. Obviously, everything remained in a flux. “Terrific,” she muttered, as she reached the bottom of the staircase.

She saw the young marine who had approached her earlier. He stood in a line of recruits in the centre of the compound. No commanding officer was in sight. Tattersail called the boy over.

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“Yes, Sorceress?” he asked, as he arrived to stand at attention in front of her.

“What are you all standing around for, soldier?”

"We're about to be issued our weapons. The staff sergeant's gone to bring the wagon round.”

Tattersail nodded. “I have a task for you. I'll see that you get your weapons-but not the tinny ones your friends are about to receive. If a superior officer questions your absence, refer him to me.”

“Yes, Sorceress.”

A pang of regret hit Tattersail. upon meeting the boy's bright, eager gaze. Chances were, he'd be dead within a few months. The Empire had many crimes staining its banner, but this was the worst of them. She sighed. “Deliver, in person, this message to Sergeant Whiskeyjack, Bridgeburners. The fat lady with the spells wants to talk. You have it, soldier?”

The boy blanched.

“Let's hear it.”

The marine repeated the message in a deadpan tone.

Tattersail smiled. “Very good. Now run along, and don't forget to get an answer from him. I'll be in my quarters.”

Captain Paran swung around for a last look at the Black Moranth. The squad had just reached the plateau's crest. He watched until they disappeared from view, then shifted his gaze back to the city in the east.

From this distance, with the wide, flat plain in between, Pale seemed peaceful enough, although the ground outside the walls was studded with black basaltic rubble and the memory of smoke and fire clung to the air. Along the wall scaffolding rose in places, tiny figures crowding the frameworks. They appeared to be rebuilding huge gaps in the stonework. pqdm.com