He paused to brush grey dust from his cloak and leggings, then lifted his head and met Tavore’s gaze. ‘Adjunct, greetings from the Empress. And myself, of course.’
‘Topper. I sense your mission here will be an unpleasant one. Fist Gamet, will you kindly pour our guest some wine?’
‘Of course.’ Gods below, the damned master of the Claw . He glanced down at his own cup, then offered it to Topper. ‘I have yet to sip. Here.’
The tall man tilted his head in thanks and accepted the cup.
Gamet went to where the jug waited.
‘You have come directly from the Empress?’ Tavore asked the Clawmaster.
‘I have, and before that, from across the ocean… from Genabackis, where I spent a most glum evening in the company of High Mage Tayschrenn. Would it shock you to know that he and I got drunk that night?’
Gamet’s head turned at that. It seemed such an unlikely image in his mind that he was indeed shocked.
The Adjunct looked equally startled, then she visibly steeled herself. ‘What news have you to tell me?’
Topper swallowed down a large mouthful of wine, then scowled. ‘Watered. Ah well. Losses, Adjunct. On Genabackis. Terrible losses…’
Lying motionless in a grassy depression thirty paces beyond the squad’s fire, Bottle closed his eyes. He could hear his name being called. Strings-who was called Fid by Gesler-wanted him, but the mage was not ready. Not yet. He had a different conversation to listen to, and managing that-without being detected-was no easy task.
His grandmother back in Malaz City would have been proud. ‘ Never mind those damned warrens, child, the deep magic is far older. Remember, seek out the roots and tendrils, the roots and tendrils. The paths through the ground, the invisible web woven from creature to creature. Every creature-on the land, in the land, in the air, in the water-they are all linked. And it is within you, if you have been awakened, and spirits below, you’ve been awakened, child! Within you, then, to ride those tendrils. ’
And ride them he did, though he would not surrender his private fascination with warrens, with Meanas in particular. Illusions… playing with those tendrils, with those roots of being, twisting and tying them into deceptive knots that tricked the eye, the touch, that deceived every sense, now that was a game worth playing…
But for the moment, he had immersed himself in the old ways, the undetectable ways-if one were careful, that is. Riding the life-sparks of capemoths, of rhizan, of crickets and chigger fleas, of roving blood-flies. Mindless creatures dancing on the tent’s wall, hearing but not comprehending the sound shivers of the words coming from the other side of that tent wall.