Quick Ben raised an eyebrow. Inside, his heart lurched in his chest. Was it possible? Would he not have detected something? A flavour, a hint of immortal presence?
“One last thing, Wizard,” Hairlock murmured, taking another step. “Tattersail's fever crested just this night past. She screamed something about a coin. A coin that had spun, but now it has fallen, it has bounced, it has entered someone's hand. You must tell me about this coin-I must have your thoughts, Wizard.” The puppet stopped suddenly and looked down at the knife in his hand. Hairlock hesitated, seeming confused, then sheathed the weapon and squatted. “What's so important about a coin?” he growled. “Nothing. The bitch raved-she was stronger than I had thought.”
Quick Ben froze. The puppet seemed to have forgotten that the wizard was present. The thoughts he now heard were Hairlock's own. He realized he was looking through the shattered window into the puppet's insane mind. And it was there that all the danger lay. The wizard held his breath as Hairlock continued, its eyes fixed on the clouds below.
“Gear should have killed her-would have, if not for that idiot captain. What irony, he now tends to her and puts his hand to his sword whenever I seek to come near. He knows I would snuff her life in an instant. But that sword. What god plays with this fool noble?” The puppet spoke on, but his words dwindled into inaudible mumbles.
Quick Ben waited, hoping for more, though what he'd already heard was enough to set his heart pounding. This mad creature was unpredictable, and all that held him in check was a tenuous control-the strings of power he'd attached to Hairlock's wooden body. But with this kind of madness came strength-enough strength to break those strings?
The wizard was no longer as sure of his control as he had been.
Hairlock had fallen silent. His painted eyes still flickered with black flame-the leaking of Chaotic power. Quick Ben took a step forward.
“Pursue Tayschrenn's plans,” he commanded, then he kicked hard. The toe of his boot struck Hairlock's chest and sent the puppet spinning.
Hairlock flew out over the edge, then fell downward. His outraged snarl dwindled as he disappeared into the yellow clouds.
Quick Ben drew a deep breath of the thick, stale air. He hoped that his abrupt dismissal had been enough to skew Hairlock's recollections of the past few minutes. Still, he felt those strings of control growing ever more taut. The more this Warren twisted Hairlock, the more power he would command.
The wizard knew what he'd have to do-Hairlock had given it to him, in fact. Still, Quick Ben wasn't looking forward to it. The taste of sour bile rose into his mouth and he spat over the ledge. The air stank of sweat and it was a moment before he realized it was his own. He hissed a curse. “Time to leave,” he muttered. He raised his arms.
The wind returned with a roar, and he felt his body flung up, up into the cavern above, then the next. As the caverns blurred by, a single word clung to his thoughts, a word that seemed to twist around the problem of Hairlock like a web.
Quick Ben smiled, but it was a smile responding to terror. And the word remained, Gear, and with that name the wizard's terror found a face.
Whiskeyjack rose amid silence. The expressions arrayed around him were sober, eyes downcast or fixed elsewhere, closed into some personal, private place where swam the heaviest thoughts. The lone exception was Sorry, who stared at the sergeant with bright, approving eyes.
Whiskeyjack wondered who was doing the approving within those eyes-then he shook his head, angry that something of Quick Ben and Kalam's suspicions had slipped into his thoughts.
He glanced away, to see Quick Ben approaching. The wizard looked tired, an ashen tint to his face. Whiskeyjack's gaze snapped to Kalam.
The assassin nodded. “Everyone, look alive,” he said. “Load up the boat and get it ready.”
Mallet leading the way, the others headed down to the beach.
Waiting for Quick Ben to arrive, Kalam said, “The squad looks beat, Sergeant. Fiddler, Trotts and Hedge moved enough dirt in those tunnels to bury the Empire's dead. I'm worried about them. Mallet-he seems to be holding together, so far: Still, whatever Sorry knows about fishing, I doubt any one of us could row their way out of a bathtub. And we're about to try crossing a lake damn near big as a sea?”
“Whiskeyjack's jaw tightened, then he forced a casual shrug into his shoulders. “You know damn well that any Warren opening anywhere near the city will likely be detected. No choice, Corporal. We row. Unless we can rig up a sail.”
Kalam grunted. “Since when does the girl know about fishing?”