It had been months. Something had kept her away. Maybe Calot's death could have been foretold, and maybe that suspicion had been pacing in the darkness of her thoughts all this time. Pain and fear had been shaping her soul all her life, but her time with Calot had been another kind of shaping, something light, happy, pleasantly floating. She'd called it mere diversion.

'How's that for wilful denial?' She heard the bitterness in her tone and hated herself for it. Her old demons were back, laughing at the death of her illusions. You refused the Deck once before, the night before Mock's throat was opened,, the night before Dancer and the man who would one day rule an Empire stole into your master's – your lover's – Hold. Would you deny that a pattern exists, woman?

Her vision blurry with memories she'd thought buried for ever, she looked down at the Deck, blinking rapidly. 'Do I want you to talk to me, old friend? Do I need your reminders, your wry confirmation that faith is for fools?'

A motion caught the corner of her eye. Whatever was inside the bound hide had moved. Lumps rose here and there, pushing against the seams. Tattersail stared. Then, her breath catching, she reached to it and set it in front of her. She withdrew a small dagger from her belt and began to cut the seams. The object within went still, as if awaiting the result of her efforts. She peeled back a sliced flap of hide.

' 'Sail,' said a familiar voice.

Her eyes widened as a wooden marionette, wearing bright yellow silk clothing, climbed out of the bag. Painted on its round face were features she recognized.

'Hairlock.'

'Good to see you again,' the marionette said, rising to its feet. It wobbled and held out artfully carved hands to regain balance. 'And the soul did shift,' he said, doffing his floppy hat and managing an unsteady bow.

Soul shifting. 'But that's been lost for centuries. Not even Tayschrenn—' She stopped, pursing her lips. Her thoughts raced.

'Later,' Hairlock said. He took a few steps, then bent his head forward to study his new body. 'Well,' he sighed, 'one mustn't quibble, must one?' He looked up and fixed painted eyes on the sorceress. 'You have to go to my tent before the thought occurs to Tayschrenn. I need my Book. You're part of this now. There's no turning back.'

'Part of what?'

Hairlock made no reply, having broken his uncanny stare. He lowered himself down to his knees. 'Thought I smelled a Deck,' he said.

Sweat ran in cold rivulets under Tattersail's arms. Hairlock had made her uneasy at the best of times, but this ... She could smell her own fear. That he'd swung his gaze from her made her grateful for small mercies. This was Elder Magic, Kurald Galain, if the legends were true, and it was deadly, vicious, raw and primal. The Bridgeburners had a reputation for being a mean crowd, but to walk the Warrens closest to Chaos was pure madness. Or desperation.