Gardens of the Moon

'None,' Dujek said. 'He's disappeared. Then again so has that killer of yours, Kalam.'

Whiskeyjack shook his head. 'I know where he is, and where he's been all night. Hedge and Mallet were the last to see the captain, leaving Knob's Inn, and then he just seems to vanish. High Fist, we didn't kill this Captain Paran.'

'Don't quibble with words,' Dujek muttered. 'Damn it, Fiddler, is that your sword lying over there? In a puddle?'

Breath hissed between Fiddler's teeth and he hurried over to the weapon.

'The man's a hopeless legend,' Dujek said. 'Shedenul bless his hide.' He paused, seeming to reorder his thoughts. 'OK, perish the thought, then. You didn't kill Paran. So where is he?'

'We're looking,' Whiskeyjack said tonelessly.

The High Fist sighed. 'All right. Understood. You want to know who else might be wanting Paran dead, and that means explaining who sent him. Well, he's Adjunct Lorn's man, has been for some time. He's not Claw, though. He's a bloody noble's son from Unta.'

Fiddler had donned his weapon and now stood twenty paces away at the roof's edge, hands on his hips. A good man. They're all good, dammit. Whiskeyjack blinked the rain from his eyes. 'From the capital? Could be someone in those circles. Nobody likes the old noble families, not even the nobles themselves.'

'It's possible,' Dujek conceded, without much conviction. 'In any case, he's to command your squad, and not for just this mission. The assignment's permanent.'

Whiskeyjack asked, 'Is the Darujhistan infiltration his own idea?'

The High Fist replied, 'No, but whose it is is anybody's guess. Maybe the Adjunct, maybe the Empress herself. So what all that means is we're sending you in anyway.' He scowled briefly. 'I'm to relay the final details to you.' He faced the sergeant. 'Assuming Paran is gone for good.'

'May I speak freely, High Fist?'

Dujek barked a laugh. 'You think I don't know it, Whiskeyjack? The plan stinks. A tactical nightmare-'

'I don't agree.'

'What?'

'I think it will do just as it was intended to do,' the sergeant said dully, his gaze at first on the lightening eastern horizon, then on the soldier standing at the roof's edge. Because it is intended to get us all killed.

The High Fist studied the sergeant's face, then he said, 'Come with me.' He led Whiskeyjack over to where Fiddler stood. The sapper gave them a nod. A moment later all three stood looking down on the city.

Pale's ill-lit streets wound between the rough blocks of buildings that seemed unwilling to yield the night; behind curtains of rain their squatting silhouettes appeared to shiver before the coming dawn.

After a while, Dujek said quietly, 'Danmed lonely out here, isn't it?'

Fiddler grunted. 'That it is, sir.'

Whiskeyjack closed his eyes. Whatever was happening thousands of leagues away was being played out here. Such was Empire, and it always would be, no matter the place or the people. They were all instruments blind to the hands shaping them. The sergeant had faced that truth long ago. It had galled him then and it galled him now. The only relief, these days, seemed to come with exhaustion.

'There's pressure,' the High Fist continued slowly, 'to disband the Bridgeburners. I've already received the order to merge the Second with the Fifth and Sixth. We'll stand as the Fifth, near full complement. The tides are bringing new waters to our shore, gentlemen, and they smell bitter.' He hesitated, then said, 'If you and your squad come out of Darujhistan alive, Sergeant, you have my permission just to walk.'

Whiskeyjack's head snapped around and Fiddler stiffened.

Dujek nodded. 'You heard me. And as for the rest of the Bridgeburners, well, rest easy that I'll take care of them.' The High Fist glanced eastward, baring his teeth in a humourless grin. 'They're pushing me. But there's no way in hell they're going to leave me with no room to manoeuvre. I've got ten thousand soldiers I owe a lot to-'

'Excuse me, sir,' Fiddler cut in, 'there's ten thousand soldiers saying they're the ones owing. You say the word and-'

'Quiet,' Dujek warned.

'Yes, sir.'

Whiskeyjack remained silent, his thoughts a whirling maelstrom.

Desertion. That word rang in his head like a dirge. And Fiddler's assertion was, he felt, a true one. If High Fist Dujek decided it was time to make a move, the last place Whiskeyjack wanted to be was on the run hundreds of leagues away from the centre of things. He was too close to Dujek and, though they strove to hide it, the history between them ever churned beneath the surface. There'd been a time when Dujek had called him 'sir', and though Whiskeyjack held no grudges he knew that Dujek still had trouble accepting the change of fortunes. If the time came, Whiskeyjack intended to be at Onearm's side.