Gardens of the Moon

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Soon as the guild assassin left the room, kalam drained the last of his beer, paid up, and ascended the staircase.

From the gallery railing he studied the crowd below, then, seeing that no one paid him much attention, he strode down the hallway and entered the last room on the right.

He closed the door and locked it. Quick Ben was seated cross-legged on the floor, within a circle of melted blue wax. The wizard was hunched over, bare-chested, his eyes shut and droplets of sweat trickling down his face. Around him the air shimmered, as if glossed with lacquer.

Kalam walked around the wax circle to the bed. He took a leather satchel from a peg above the bedpost and set it down on the thin, straw-filled mattress. Peeling back the flap he removed the contents. A minute later he'd laid out the mechanisms for a goat's foot arbalest. The crossbow's metal parts had been blued, the narrow wooden stock soaked in pitch and dusted with black sand. Kalam slowly, quietly, assembled the weapon.

Quick Ben spoke behind him. «Done. Whenever you're ready, friend.»

«The man left through the kitchen. But he'll be back,» Kalam said, rising with the arbalest in his hands. He attached a strap to it and slung the weapon over one shoulder. Then he faced the wizard. «I'm ready.»

Quick Ben also stood, wiping his forehead with a sleeve. «Two spells. You'll be able to float, control every descent. The other should give you the ability to see anything magical-well, almost anything. If there's a High Mage kicking around, we're out of luck.»

«And you?» Kalam asked, as he examined his quiver of bolts.

«You won't see me directly, just my aura,» Quick Ben replied with a grin, «but I'll be with you all the way.»

«Well, hopefully this'll go smoothly. We make contact with the Guild, we offer the Empire's contract, they accept and remove for us every major threat in the city.» He shrugged into his black cloak and pulled up the hood.

«You sure we can't just go downstairs and walk right up to the man, lay it out?»

Kalam shook his head. «Not how it's done. We've identified him, he's done the same with us. He's probably just made contact with his commander, and they'll arrange things to their liking. Our man should lead us now to the meet.»

«Won't it be an ambush we're walking into, then?»

The large man agreed. «More or less. But they'll want to know what we want with them first. And once that's out, I doubt the Guild's master will be interested in killing us. You ready?»

Quick Ben raised a hand towards Kalam, then muttered briefly under his breath.

Kalam felt a lightness come into him, rising to his skin and emanating a cushion of cool air that enveloped his body. And before his eyes Quick Ben's figure formed a blue-green penumbra, concentrated at the wizard's long-fingered hands. «I have them,» the assassin said, smiling, «two old friends.»

Quick Ben sighed. «Yes, here we are doing this all over again.» He met his friend's gaze. «Hood's on our heels, Kal. I can feel his breath on my neck, these days.»

«You're not alone in that.» Kalam turned to the window. «Sometimes,» he said drily, «I have the feeling our Empire wants us dead.» He walked to the window, unlatched the shutters, then swung them inward and leaned both hands on the sill.

Quick Ben came up beside him and rested a hand on his shoulder.

They gazed out at the darkness, a brief sharing of unease passing between them.

«We've seen too much,» Quick Ben said softly.

«Hood's Breath,» Kalam growled, «what are we doing this for anyway?»

«Maybe if the Empire gets what it wants-Darujhistan-they'll let us slip away.»

«Sure, but who's going to convince the sergeant to walk out of the Empire?»

«We show him he hasn't got any choice.»

Kalam climbed on to the sill. «Good thing I'm not a Claw any more. Just soldiers, right?»

Behind him Quick Ben touched his own chest and vanished. His disembodied voice held a note of wry amusement. «Right. No more cloak-and-dagger games for old Kalam.»

The assassin pulled himself up, turning to face the wall then beginning his climb to the roof. «Yeah, I've always hated it.»

Quick Ben's voice was beside him now. «No more assassinations.»

«No more spying,» Kalam added, reaching for the roof's edge.

«No more disguising spells.»

Clambering on to the roof, Kalam lay still. «No more daggers in the back,» he whispered, then sat up and scanned the nearby rooftops. He saw nothing; no unusual huddled shapes, no bright magical auras.

«Thank the gods,» came Quick Ben's whisper from above.

«Thank the gods,» Kalam echoed, then looked down over the roof's edge. Below a pool of light marked the inn entrance. «You take the back door. I've got this one.»

«Right.»

Even as the wizard answered Kalam stiffened. «There he is,» he hissed.

«You still with me?»

Quick Ben assented.

They watched the figure of Rallick Nom, now cloaked, crossing to the far side of the street and entering an alley.

«I'm on him,» Quick Ben said.

A blue-green glow rose around the wizard. He rose into the air and flew out swiftly across the street, slowing as he reached the alley. Kalam climbed to his feet and padded silently along the roof's edge. Reaching the corner, he glanced down to the rooftop of an adjacent building, then jumped.

He descended slowly, as if sinking through water, and landed without a sound. Off to his right, moving on a parallel path, was Quick Ben's magical aura. Kalam crossed the rooftop to the next building. Their man was heading for the harbour-front.

Kalam continued tracking Quick Ben's beacon, moving from one rooftop to the next, sometimes jumping down, at other times climbing.

There was little subtlety about Kalam: where others used finesse he used the strength of his thick arms and legs. It made him an unlikely assassin, but he'd learned to use that to his advantage.

They now approached the harbour area, the buildings single-storeyed and large, the streets rarely lit except around the double-door entrances to warehouses, where the occasional private guard lingered. In the night air hung the taint of sewage and fish.

Finally, Quick Ben stopped, hovered over a warehouse courtyard, then hurried back to Kalam, who waited at the edge of a nearby two-storeyed clearing house. «Looks like the place,» Quick Ben said, floating a few feet above Kalam. «What now?»

«I want a good line of sight to that courtyard.»

«Follow me.»

Quick Ben led him to another building. Their man was now visible, crouching on the warehouse roof, attention down on the courtyard below.

«Kai, do you smell something bad about this?»

Kalam snorted. «Hell, no, it's bloody roses out here. Take position, friend.»

«Right.»

Rallick Nom lay down on the rooftop, his head out over its edge. Below was the warehouse's courtyard, flat, grey and empty. Directly beneath him the shadows were impenetrable. Sweat trickled down Rallick's face.

From the shadow below came Ocelot's voice, «He's got you in sight?»

«Yes.»

«And he's not moving?»

«No. Listen, I'm sure there's more than one of them. I would've known if he'd been trailing me, and no one was. It stinks of magery, Ocelot, and you know what I think about magery.»

«Dammit, Nom. If you'd just start using the stuff we give you, you'd rank among the best of us. But to Hood's Gate with that. We've got spotters, and unless there's a very good wizard around we'd pick up on any magic. Face it,» a note of malice entered Ocelot's voice, «he's better than you. He tracked you all right. Solo.»

«What now?» Rallick asked.

Ocelot chuckled. «We're closing the circle even as we speak. Your work's done, Nom. Tonight the assassins» war ends. In five minutes you can head home.»

High above the city a demon flapped on leathery wings, its green reptilian eyes surveying the rooftops below with a vision that detected magic as easily as it did heat. Though the demon was no larger than a dog, its power was immense, near par to the man who had summoned and chained it this very night. On the rooftops it saw two auras close together, one a man on whom spells had been cast, and the other a wizard, a very good wizard. In a ragged circle on other rooftops around these two, men and women moved inward, some betrayed by the heat of their bodies, others by items imbued with sorcery.

Until now the demon rode the high night winds bored and resentful of its master. A mere mission of observation, for one of such power! But now the demon felt a surge of bloodlust. If only its master had been weaker, so that it could break the bonds and descend to the rooftops, then there would have been slaughter.

The demon was musing on these thoughts, its eyes fixed on the scene below, when a booted heel rammed into the back of its small, round head. The creature spun, tumbling, then twisted round to face its attacker, rage blazing in its skull.

A moment later it was fighting for its life. The figure that closed with the demon possessed a blinding magical aura. Grappling, the surging energies of both collided, enwrapped like tentacles. The demon struggled against the savage pain constricting it as the figure pressed its attack. A cold that burned filled the demon's skull, a cold alien in its breath of power, so alien that the demon could find no means of countering it.

The two fell slowly as they fought, duelling in absolute silence with forces invisible to the city's inhabitants below, while around them other figures descended towards the warehouse, cloaks spread like sails, crossbows crooked in their arms, hooded faces angled downward and hidden beneath black masks. There were eleven in all that passed the demon and its attacker. None of the others paid any attention, and with this realization the demon experienced an emotion it had never known before. Fear.

Its thoughts turning from battle to survival, the demon tore itself from its attacker's grasp. Loosing a high-pitched cry, it flapped upward.

The figure did not pursue, instead joining the others in their silent descent to the city.

As the twelve shrouded assassins dropped towards the circle of men and women below, one splitting off and angling above the circle's two targets, they took careful aim with their crossbows, and began a massacre.

Kalam stared down at the assassin lying supine on the roof below, wondering what to do next. Were they waiting for him to initiate contact? A low growl escaped him. Something was wrong. He could feel it like fever in his bones.

«Dammit, Quick. Let's get out of here!»

«Wait!» came Quick Ben's disembodied voice. «Oh, damn,» he said softly then in front of Kalam two brightly glowing shapes dropped down on to the roof below, landing behind their mark.

«What the hell?»

Then he felt a slight tremor on the flat tiles beneath his hands. Kalam rolled on to his back, hearing a quarrel whiz past. Framed by his knees, a cloaked figure stood about thirty feet away. After missing with the quarrel the figure raced forward. Another landed behind the first one, near the roof's far edge.

Kalam scampered. He dropped down over the roof's edge.

Quick Ben floated above him. The spell of deflection he'd raised about himself was a High Order magery, and he was certain he remained unseen by these new assailants. He watched as the approaching figure slowed, then padded cautiously to the roof edge where Kalam had dropped from sight. Daggers gleaming in both gloved hands, this new assassin reached the edge and crouched. Quick Ben held his breath as the figure leaned forward.

Kalam hadn't gone far. He gripped the roof's gables. When the attacker's upper body came into view, blotting out the stars behind it, he surged upward on the strength of one arm, his other shooting up to close on the assassin's neck with a vice-like grip. Kalam jerked the assassin downward, at the same time bringing up his knee. The attacker's clothwrapped face met his knee with a crunch. Kalam, still gripping the gable with one hand, gave the now limp figure a shake, then sent the body spiralling down to the street below.

Gasping, he pulled himself back on to the roof. At the far end he saw the second assassin whirl around. Growling, Kalam surged to his feet and sprinted at the figure.

The unknown assassin stepped back as if startled, then brought a hand down and promptly vanished.

Kalam slid to a stop and stood crouched, both hands hanging at his sides.

«I see her,» Quick Ben whispered.

With a hiss Kalam spun in a full circle, then danced to one side, putting his back to the roof's edge. «I don't.»

«She's putting energy into it,» Quick Ben said. «I keep losing her. Wait, Kai!» The wizard fell silent.

Kalam's head snapped with every muted sound. His breath gusted in and out from his nostrils, his hands twitched. Wait. A low rumble came from his chest. Wait for what? A knife in his throat?

All at once the night exploded with sound and fire. The attacker burst into view immediately in front of Kalam, dagger flashing at his chest.

Smoke and sparks rained from her but she moved as if unaffected. Kalam twisted to one side, trying to avoid the blade. The dagger tore through his shirt below his ribs, sinking deep into his flesh then ripping sideways.

He felt a hot gush of blood as he drove a fist into the woman's solar plexus. She gasped, reeling back, threads of blood whipping from the dagger in her right hand. Kalam charged forward with a snarl. He closed and, ignoring the assassin's dagger, punched into her chest again. Ribs cracked. His other hand flat-palmed her forehead. The assassin sprawled backwards, landing with a thump on the roof. Her body stilled.

Kalam sank to one knee, drawing in gulps of air. «Wait, you said, daminit! What the hell's wrong with you, Quick?» He pushed a knot of cloth into the wound below his ribcage. «Quick?»

There was no reply. He tensed, then turned and scanned the lower rooftops. Bodies lay scattered here and there. The warehouse roof, where he'd seen two figures land behind their mark, was empty. Groaning softly, he sank down on to his knees.

With the woman's attack he'd heard something amid the flashing fires. A boom, no, two booms, very close together. An exchange of magic. His breath caught. Was there a third assassin? A wizard? Quick Ben had damaged this one, but someone else had damaged Quick Ben. «Oh, Hood,» he whispered, glaring about.

Rallick's first intimation of trouble was a sharp blow between his shoulder blades. The breath burst from his lungs, carrying with it the ability to move. His back throbbed, and he knew he'd been hit by a quarrel, but the jazeraint armour under his shirt had withstood the impact-the quarrel's spiked head had pierced the iron but had been too spent to push further. Through the thumping pulse in his ears he caught a pair of footsteps approaching him from behind.

From the shadows below came Ocelot's voice, «Nom? What's happening?»

Behind Rallick the footsteps stopped, and there came the soft clacking of a crossbow being cocked. Raffick's wind returned, the numbness receding from his body. His own weapon lay beside him, ready. He waited.

«Nom?»

A soft footfall sounded behind him and to the left. In one motion Rallick rolled on to his back, grasped his crossbow, sat up and fired. The assassin, less than fifteen feet away, was thrown back by the quarrel's impact, its weapon flying.

Rallick heaved himself to one side, only now seeing the second attacker well behind the first. The figure crouched and fired its crossbow.

The quarrel caught Rallick's upper chest on the right, then ricocheted up past his head to disappear into the darkness. The blow left his right arm numb. He struggled to his feet, unsheathing his knife, the hooked blade a blue flicker in the night.

The assassin opposite him took a careful step forward, then backed away to the far edge and dropped over the side.

«Hood's Breath,» came Ocelot's voice beside Rallick. He turned but saw no one.

«He saw my magic,» Ocelot said. «Good work on the first one, Nom. Maybe we can finally determine who these people are.»

«I don't think so,» Rallick said, his eyes on the motionless body. An incandescent shimmer now wreathed it.

As the body disappeared Ocelot cursed. «Some kind of recall spell,» he said. Suddenly the Clan Master appeared in front of Rallick. His face twisted into a snarl as he glared about. «We set the trap, we end up dead.»

Rallick did not reply. He reached over his shoulder, pulled out the quarrel and tossed it to one side. The trappers had become the trapped, that was true, but he felt certain that the man who'd followed him had nothing to do with these newcomers. He turned and gazed up at the roof where his follower had been stationed. Even as he watched there was a flash of red and yellow light and a double thunderclap, and in that instant Rallick saw a silhouetted figure at the roof's edge, defending itself from a frontal attack. The flash winked out leaving only darkness.

«Magery,» Ocelot whispered. «High-power stuff, too. Come on, we're getting out of here.»

They left quickly, climbing down into the warehouse court.

Once she had marked them, Sorry could find the fat little man and the Coin Bearer effortlessly. Though she'd intended to trail this Kruppe after leaving Kalam and Quick Ben in the hut, something had drawn her instead to the boy. A suspicion, a sense that his actions were-at least for now-more important than Kruppe's meanderings.

The Coin Bearer was the last of Oponn's influence, and the god's most vital player in the game. Thus far, she'd done well in eliminating the other potential players-men like Captain Paran, who had been the Adjunct's aide and, by extension, a servant to the Empress. And there had been that Claw Leader in Pale, the one she had garotted. On her path to the Bridgeburners, others had been removed as well, but only as necessary.

She knew that the boy would have to die, yet something within her seemed to be fighting that conclusion, and it was a part of her she could not recognize. She'd been taken, born a killer two years ago on a coastal road. The body she dwelt within was convenient, suitably unmarred by the events of a dramatic life-a young girl's body, a young girl whose mind was no match for the power that overwhelmed it, obliterated it.

But was it obliterated? What had the coin touched inside her? And whose voice was this that spoke with such power and determination in her head? It had come upon her before, when Whiskeyjack had uttered the word Seer.

She tried hard to remember any dealings she might have had with a seer in the last two years, but none came to mind.

She pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders. Finding the boy had been easy, but as to what he was up to, that was another matter. On the surface it looked no more complicated than a simple theft. Crokus had stood in an alley studying a lighted window on the third floor of an estate, waiting until the light went out. Wrapped in unnatural shadows as she was, he had not seen her as he scaled the slick wall she leaned against. He climbed with impressive grace and skill.

After he'd gone she found another vantage-point, which allowed her full view of the room's balcony and sliding doors. This had meant entering the estate's garden. But there had been only one guard, patrolling the grounds. She'd killed him effortlessly and now stood beneath a tree with her eyes on the balcony.

Crokus had already reached it, had picked the lock and entered the room beyond. He was quite good, she had to admit. But what thief would then spend close to half an hour in the chamber he was robbing? Half an hour and still counting. She'd heard no alarms, seen no lights spring to life behind any of the estate's other windows, nothing to indicate that anything had gone wrong. So what was Crokus doing in there?

Sorry stiffened. Sorcery had burgeoned in another part of Darujhistan, and its flavour was known to her. She hesitated, unable to decide. Leave the lad and investigate this new, deadly emanation? Or remain here until Crokus re-emerged or was discovered?

Then she saw something behind the balcony's sliding doors that ended her indecision.

Sweat ran down Crokus's face and he found he had repeatedly to wipe it from his eyes. He'd beaten the new triggers to get inside-the one on the balcony, the trip-wire at the latch-and now padded to the makeup table. Once there he froze, unable to move. Idiot! What am I doing here?

He listened to her soft, regular breathing behind him-like the breath of a dragon-he was certain he could feel it gusting against the back of his neck. Crokus looked up and scowled at his own reflection in the mirror. What was happening to him? If he didn't leave soon: He began to remove his bag's contents. When he'd finished he glanced again at his own face-to see another behind it, a round, white face watching him from the bed.

The girl spoke. «Since you're putting it all back, I'd prefer the proper arrangement. My makeup jar goes to the left of the mirror,» she said, in a whisper. «The hairbrush goes to the right. Have you my earrings as well? just leave them on the dresser.»

Crokus groaned. He'd even forgotten to cover his face. «Don't try anything,» he growled. «I've returned everything, and now I'll leave. Understand?»

The girl pulled her blankets about her and moved to the bed's end.

«Threats won't work, thief,» she said. «All I need do is scream and my father's Master Guardsman will be here in seconds. Would you cross your dagger with his shortsword?»

«No,» said Crokus. «I'd put it to your throat instead. With you as a hostage, with you between me and the guard, will he swing his blade at me? Unlikely.»

The girl paled. «As a thief, you'd lose a hand. But kidnapping a highborn, it'd be the high gallows for you.»

Crokus tried to shrug casually. He glanced at the balcony, gauging how fast he could be outside and then up on the roof. That new trip-wire was a nuisance.

«Stay where you are,» the girl commanded. «I'm lighting a lantern.»

«Why?» Crokus demanded, fidgeting.

«To see you better,» she replied, and light bloomed in the room from the lantern in her lap.

He scowled. He hadn't noticed it there, so close at hand. She was ruining his plans even as he made them. «What's the point in seeing me better?» he snarled. «Just call your damn guards and have me arrested. Be done with it.» He pulled the silk turban from his shirt and dropped it on the tabletop. «That's all of it,» he said.

The girl glanced at the turban and shrugged easily. «That was to be part of my costume for the f?te,» she said. «I've since found a nicer one.»

«What,» he hissed, «do you want with me?»

Fear showed momentarily on her face at his desperate outburst, then she smiled. «I wish to know why a thief who succeeded in stealing all my jewels should now be returning them. That isn't something thieves usually do.»

«With good reason,» he muttered, more to himself than to her. He stepped forward then stopped as she jerked back on to her bed, her eyes widening. Crokus raised a hand. «Sorry, didn't mean to frighten you. Only: I want to see you better. That's all.»

«Why?»

He was at a loss for an answer to that. After all, he couldn't very well tell her he'd fallen madly in love with her. «What's your name?» he blurted.

«Challice D'Arle. What's yours?»

Challice. «Of course,» he said, rolling his eyes. «You would be named something like that.» He glared at her. «My name? None of your business. Thieves don't introduce themselves to their victims.»

Her eyebrows rose. «Victim? But I'm no longer a victim, am I? You've settled that by returning. I'd think,» she said slyly, «you're more or less obliged to tell me your name, considering what you're doing. And you must be the type who treats obligations seriously, no matter how strange they seem.»

Crokus frowned at that. What was she talking about? What did she know about how he looked at obligations? And why was she right? «My name,» he sighed, defeated, «is Crokus Younghand. And you're the daughter of the high born D'Arle who all those suitors are lining up to be introduced to. But one day you'll see me in that line, Challice, and only you will know where you last saw me. It'll be a formal introduction, and I'll bring a gift as is correct.» He stared at her, horrified by his own words.

Her wide eyes held his, emotion bright in them-emotion he'd no hope of understanding-then she burst out laughing. She immediately clapped a hand over her mouth, then jolted forward on the bed. «You'd better go, Crokus. Someone will have heard me. Quickly, and beware the trip-wire!»

Crokus moved woodenly to the balcony's sliding doors. Her laughter had been the final punctuation to all his dreams. He felt dead inside, except for a cynic's chuckle that might have been his own, given the odd look she threw him. Her blankets had fallen down around her, and once again she was naked. It astonished him in a distant way that she hadn't even seemed to notice.

A voice came from beyond the door leading to the hallway, indistinct.

The girl hissed, «Hurry, you fool!» Alarm bells jangled in his head, awakening him. He had to move, and fast. Crokus stepped over the trip-wire and opened the door. He paused to glance back at her, and smiled as she clutched the blankets to her neck.

Well, at least he'd won that much.

A knock sounded on the opposite door.

Crokus emerged on to the balcony and hitched himself up on to the railing. He looked down into the garden and almost fell. The guard was gone. In his place stood a woman-and, though she was cloaked, something about her triggered instant recognition. The woman from the bar, and she was looking right at him with dark eyes that burned him deep inside.

The door in the room opened and Crokus shook himself. Damn that woman, anyway! Damn both of them! He grasped the eaves above his head and swung lithely up and out of sight.

Kalam crouched motionless in the middle of the rooftop, a knife in each hand. Around him was silence, the night air tense and heavy. Long minutes passed. At times he convinced himself he was alone, that Quick Ben and the other wizard had left the roof; that they hunted each other in the sky overhead, or in the alleys and streets below, or on another roof. But then he'd hear something, a drawn breath, a scuff of cloth against leather, or a wisp of wind would brush his cheek on this windless night.

Then, before his eyes, the darkness was shattered. Two shapes appeared hovering over the rooftop. The assassin had found Quick Ben, attacking with a bolt of fire that seemed to stun the wizard, then swiftly closing the distance between himself and the dazed man.

Kalam surged forward to intercept. Quick Ben vanished then re-appeared immediately behind the assassin. The blue flash of power bursting from the wizard's hands struck the magic-wielding assassin full in the back. Clothes aflame, the man tumbled through the air.

Quick Ben whirled to Kalam. «Come on! Get moving!»

Kalam ran, his friend flying beside him. As they reached the roof's edge he turned for a last look. The assassin mage had somehow snuffed the fire from his clothes and was regaining his balance. At the far edge two of his comrades appeared.

«Jump,» Quick Ben said. «I'll stall them.»

«With what?» Kalam demanded, tottering on the edge.

In answer Quick Ben produced a small vial. He spun in the air and hurled it.

Kalam cursed, then jumped.

The vial struck the rooftop and shattered with a thin tinkle. Beyond, the three assassins paused. Quick Ben remained, his eyes on the white smoke rising from the glass shards. A figure took form within the smoke, growing in size. Its shape was almost insubstantial, the smoke stretching like threads in places, curling like wool in others. All that was visible within it was its eyes, two black slits, which it swung to Quick Ben.

«You,» it said, its voice that of a child, «are not Master Tayschrenn.»

«That's right,» Quick Ben said, «but I'm in his legion. Your service remains with the Empire.» He pointed across the roof. «There are three who are the Empire's enemies, Demon. Tiste And? here to oppose the Malazan Empire.»

«My name is Pearl,» the Korvalah demon said softly, then turned to the three assassins, who had spread out along the far edge. «They are not fleeing,» Pearl said, with a note of surprise.

Quick Ben wiped sweat from his forehead. He glanced down. Kalam was a vague shape waiting in the alley below. «I know,» he said to Pearl.

That observation had unnerved him as well. One of Tayschrenn's Korvalahrai could level a city if it so chose.

«They accept my challenge,» Pearl said, facing Quick Ben again. «Should I pity them?»

«No,» he answered. «Just kill them and be done with it.»

«Then I return to Master Tayschrenn.»

«Yes.»

«What is your name, Wizard?»

He hesitated, then said, «Ben Adaephon Delat.»

«You are supposed to be dead,» Pearl said. «Your name is so marked on the scrolls of those High Mages who fell to the Empire in Seven Cities.»

Quick Ben glanced up. «Others are coming, Pearl. You are in for a fight.»

The demon lifted its gaze. Above them glowing figures descended, five in the first wave, one in the second. This last one radiated such power that Quick Ben shrank back, his blood chilled. The figure had something long and narrow strapped to its back.

«Ben Adaephon Delat,» Pearl said plaintively, «see the last who comes. You send me to my death.»

«I know,» Quick Ben whispered.

«Flee, then. I will hold them enough to ensure your escape, no more.»

Quick Ben sank down past the roof.

Before he passed from sight Pearl spoke again. «Ben Adaephon Delat, do you pity me?»

«Yes,» he replied softly, then pivoted and dropped down into darkness.

Raffick walked down the centre of the street. On either side of the wide corridor rose columns from which gas torches jutted, casting circles of blue light on to the wet cobblestones. The light rain had returned, coating I everything in a slick sheen. To his right and beyond the resident houses lining that side of the street, the pale domes of the High Thalanti on the hill glistened against the deep grey sky.

The temple was among the oldest structures in the city, its founding blocks over two thousand years old. The Thalanti monks had come, like so many others, carried on the wings of the rumour. Rallick knew less about the story than did Murillio and Coll. One of the Elder Peoples was believed to have been entombed among the hills, an individual of great wealth and power, that was the extent of his knowledge.

But it had been a rumour with many consequences. If not for the thousands of shafts sunk into the earth the caverns of gas would never have been found. And while many of those shafts had collapsed or had been forgotten over the centuries, still others remained, now connected by tunnels.

In one of the many chambers that honeycombed the ground beneath the temple waited Vorcan, Master of Assassins. Rallick imagined Ocelot making his descent, burdened with the news of disaster, and it brought a smile to his lean face. He'd never met Vorcan, but Ocelot suited those catacombs-just another of the city's rats rushing about beneath his feet.

One day, Rallick knew, he'd become a Clan Leader, he'd meet Vorcan face to face somewhere below. He wondered at how it would change him, and travelling down this path soured his thoughts with displeasure.

He had no option. Once, he thought, as he approached the block of the Phoenix Inn, long ago, there'd been choices he could have made that would have sent him on a different path. But those days were dead, and the future held only nights, a stretch of darkness that led down to the eternal dark. He would meet Vorcan, eventually, and he'd swear his life to the Guild Master, and that would be that, the closing of the final door.

And his sense of outrage at the injustices around him, the corruptions of the world, would wither in the unlit tunnels beneath Darujhistan. In the exactness of the methods of assassination, his final victim would be himself.

And this, more than anything, made his and Murillio's scheme the last act of humanity he'd ever make. Betrayal was the greatest of all crimes in Rallick's mind, for it took all that was human within a person and made it a thing of pain. In the face of that, murder itself was surcease: it was quick, and it ended the anguish and despair of a life without hope.

If all went as planned, Lady Sinital and those men who'd conspired with her in the betrayal of her husband, Lord Coll, would die. Could that right the wrong, could it even the scales of retribution? No, but it might return to a man his life and his hope.

For himself, Rallick, such gifts had long since been lost, and he was not the kind of man to stir the ashes. No embers survived, no flame could be born anew. Life belonged to other people, and his only claim to it was his power to take it from them. Nor would he recognize hope if it came to him. Too much a stranger, too long a ghost.

As he neared the inn's entrance, Rallick saw Crokus approaching from down the street. He increased his pace. «Crokus,» he called.

The boy flinched, then, seeing Rallick, he stopped and waited.

Rallick took his arm and steered him towards the alley without saying a word. Once in the shadows he tightened his grip, swung Crokus round and pulled him close. «Listen to me,» he hissed, his face inches from the boy's own astonished visage, «the Guild's best were slaughtered tonight. This isn't a game. You stay off the rooftops, do you understand me?»

Crokus nodded.

«And tell your uncle this. There's a Claw in the city.»

The boy's eyes widened.

«And,» Rallick continued, «there's someone else. Someone coming down from the sky, killing everything in sight.»

«Uncle Mammot?»

«Just tell him. And now listen carefully, Crokus. What I'm about to say is from me to you, one to one, understand?»

Crokus nodded again, his face pale.

«You stay on this path and you'll end up dead. I don't give a damn how exciting it all seems-what's excitement to you is desperation to others. Stop feeding off the city's lifeblood, lad. There's no hero's role in sucking others dry. Am I understood?»

«Yes,» Crokus whispered.

Rallick released the boy's arm and stepped back. «Now, leave.» He shoved Crokus up the street, watched the boy stagger away and disappear around a corner. He drew a deep breath, surprised to find his hands trembling as he loosened his cloak's collar.

Murillio stepped from the shadows. «I'm not sure it'll work, friend, but it was a good try.» He laid a hand on the assassin's shoulder. «Master Baruk has a job for us. Kruppe insists we bring Crokus along.»

Rallick frowned. «Along? Are we leaving Darujhistan, then?»

«Afraid so.»

«Go without me,» Rallick said. «Tell Baruk I can't be found. Everything's at a critical juncture-our planning included.»

«Something else happening, Nom?»

«You heard the message I gave Crokus for his uncle?»

Murillio shook his head. «I came late to your scene. Saw you dragging the lad into the alley.»

«Well,» Rallick said, «let's go inside. It's been a night to make Hood smile, friend.»

Together, the two men strode from the alley. In the street outside the Phoenix Inn, dawn's light crept through the mists of the lingering rain.

In the centre of the rooftop lay a large patch of ash and bone that crackled faintly and cast out the occasional hissing spark. Anomander Rake slammed his sword into its sheath. «I sent twelve of you,» he said, to the black-caped figure standing beside him, «and I see but eight. What happened, Serraff?»

The Tiste And? woman was clearly exhausted. «We've been working hard, Lord.»

«Details,» Rake said abruptly.

Serrat sighed. «Jekaral has a broken neck and three cracked ribs. Boruld's face is a mess, broken nose, broken cheekbone, broken jaw-»

«Who were they fighting?» Rake asked, turning to his lieutenant in exasperation. «Has the Guild Master come out of hiding?»

«No, Lord. Both Jekaral and Boruld fell to a single man, not of the city's Guild.»

Rake's eyes flashed dangerously. «Claw?»

«Possibly. He was accompanied by a High Mage. The one who gave us this Korvalah to play with.»

«It had the smell of Empire about it,» Rake muttered, his gaze on the smouldering patch that had begun to eat its way into the roof. «One of Tayschrenn's conjurings, I should think.» A savage grin flashed. «Pity to have disturbed his sleep this night.»

«Dashtal was struck by a poisoned quarrel,» Serrat said. «One of the Guild's assassins managed that.» She hesitated. «Lord. We were hard pressed in Brood's campaign. We're in need of rest. Mistakes were made this night. Some of the Guild slipped through our fingers and, had you not answered my request, we would have suffered more casualties destroying this demon.»

Rake placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the morning sky. After a moment he sighed. «Ah, Serrat. Don't think me insensitive. But the Guild Master must be flushed. This Guild must be shut down.» He eyed his lieutenant. «This Claw you encountered, do you think a meet was being established?»

«Not a meet,» Serrat answered. «A trap.»

Rake nodded. «Good.» He paused, his eyes matching Serrat's with a shade of violet. «Return to Moon's Spawn, then. Have the High Priestess herself attend to Jekaral.»

Serrat bowed. «Thank you, Lord.» She turned and gestured to the others.

«Oh,» Rake said, raising his voice to address his cadre of assassin-mages, «one last thing. You've done well, exceptionally well. You've earned a rest. Three days and nights are yours to do with as you please.»

Serrat bowed again. «We will mourn, Lord.»

«Mourn?»

«The poisoned quarrel killed Dashtal. The poison was the product of an alchemist, Lord. One of some ability. It contained paralt.»

«I see.»

«Will you return with us?»

«No.»

The lieutenant bowed a third time. As one, the eight Tiste And? raised their hands, then vanished.

Rake glanced down at the sizzling patch just as it ate through the roof and fell into darkness. There came a faint crash from below. Lord Anomander Rake swung his gaze back to the sky, then sighed.

Sergeant Whiskeyjack rocked his chair on to its back two legs and anchored it against the crumbling wall. The small, dingy room reeked of urine and damp. Two single beds, wood-framed with burlap mattresses stuffed with straw, ran along the wall to his left. The three other rickety chairs had been pulled up around the lone table in the room's centre.

Above the table hung an oil lantern, which shone down on Fiddler, Hedge and Mallet as they sat playing cards.

They'd done their work, finishing with the coming of dusk just outside Majesty Hall. Until the alliance with the Moranth, the Malazan saboteur had been nothing more than a glorified sapper, a digger of tunnels and breaker of city gates. Moranth alchemy had introduced to the Empire a variety of chemical and powder explosives, most of which detonated when exposed to air. Applying a slow-working acid worm-holed the unfired clay shells. Sabotage had become an art, the precise equation of clay thickness and acid strength was tricky, and few survived to learn from their mistakes.

To Whiskeyjack's mind, Hedge and Fiddler were terrible soldiers. He had trouble recalling the last time they'd unsheathed their shortswords.

Whatever discipline that had been part of their basic training had disintegrated through years in the field. Still, when it came to sabotage they had no equals.

Through hooded eyes Whiskeyjack studied the three men sitting at the table. It had been some minutes since any of them had made a move or said a word. One of Fiddler's new games, he decided, the man was forever inventing new ones, improvising the rules whenever they gave him an edge.

Despite the endless arguments Fiddler was never short of players.

«And that's what boredom can do,» he said to himself. But, no, it was more than just boredom. Waiting gnawed, especially when it had to do with friends. Quick Ben and Kalam might be face down in some alley for all they knew. And that made it hard.

Whiskeyjack's gaze strayed to one of the beds, on which lay his armour and longsword. Rust stained the hauberk's tattered chain like old blood. The links were missing in some places, torn in others. In his bones and muscles the memory of that damage remained: every cut, every blow now haunted him with aches, greeting him each morning like old comrades. The sword, with its plain leather-wrapped grip and stub hilt, lay in its hide-over-wood scabbard, the belt and straps draped over the bedside.

That weapon had come to him after his first battle, found amid a field of dead. He'd still had the chalk of his father's quarry on his boots then, and a world's promise stretched out before him on the banners of Empire. The sword had come to him shiny, without even so much as a nick in its honed blade, and he had taken it as his own personal standard.

Whiskeyjack's gaze lost its focus. His mind had stepped into the grey, muddy tracks of his youth, where he walked the familiar path, lost and blinded by an unidentifiable sorrow.

The door flew open, carrying into the room a gust of steamy air and then Trotts. The Barghast's coal-dark eyes met the sergeant's.

Whiskeyjack stood quickly. He went to the bed and retrieved his sword. At the table the others remained intent on their card game, their only betrayal of anxiety a subtle shifting of chairs. Whiskeyjack pushed past Trotts and closed the door to a crack, through which he looked.

Across the street, at the mouth of an alley, two figures crouched, the larger leaning heavily against the other. Whiskeyjack's breath hissed through his teeth. «Mallet,» he said over his shoulder.

At the table the healer frowned at the two saboteurs, then carefully set down his cards.

The two figures in the alley crossed the street. Whiskeyjack's hand crept to grip his sword.

«Which?» Mallet asked, as he rearranged the blankets on one of the beds.

«Kalam,» the sergeant replied. The two men reached the door and he swung it wide to let them through, then shut it again. He beckoned at Trotts, who walked over to the curtained window, pulling back a corner to watch the street.

Kalam was pale, sagging against Quick Ben. The assassin's dark grey M IR shirt was soaked with blood. Mallet moved to help the wizard and together they carried Kalam to the bed. As soon as the heater had him laid out, he waved Quick Ben away and began removing Kalam's shirt.

Quick Ben shook his head at Whiskeyjack and sat down in the chair Mallet had occupied. «What's the game?» he asked, picking up Mallet's cards and frowning as he studied them.

Neither Hedge nor Fiddler replied.

«No idea,» Whiskeyjack said, as he walked over to stand behind Mallet. «They just sit and stare.»

Quick Ben grinned. «Ah, a waiting game, right, Fid?» He leaned back comfortably and stretched out his legs.

Mallet glanced up at the sergeant. «He'll be down for a while,» the healer said. «The wound is clean, but he's lost a lot of blood.»

Crouching, Whiskeyjack studied the assassin's pallid face. Kalam's gaze remained sharp, focused on the sergeant. «Well?» Whiskeyjack demanded. «What happened?»

Quick Ben answered behind him. «Had a bit of a mage duel out there.»

Kalam nodded in confirmation.

«And?» Whiskeyjack asked, straightening to glare at the wizard.

Quick Ben wilted slightly in his chair. «It went sour. I had to release an Empire demon to get us out alive.»

Everyone in the room went still. At the window Trotts turned and made a tribal warding gesture, tracing the woad lines on his face.

Whiskeyjack's voice was soft. «It's loose in the city?»

«No,» the wizard answered. «It's dead.»

«Who did you run into?» Whiskeyjack bellowed, throwing up his hands.

«Not sure exactly,» Quick Ben said quietly. «Whatever it was, it took care of the demon in less than a minute. I heard the death cry when were only a block away. Assassin mages, Sergeant, coming down out the sky. Seemed intent on wiping out the city's Guild.»

Whiskeyjack returned to his chair and dropped into it, the wood col plaining beneath him. «From the sky. Tiste And?.»

«Yes,» Quick Ben muttered. «We thought that. The sorcery had a flavour. Old, dark and icy cold. Kurald Galain.»

«From what we saw,» Kalam added, «they did a damn good job. I contact established, Sergeant. It was messy up there.»

«So the Moon's active here.» Whiskeyjack paused, then pounded his on the chair's arm. «Worse, the Moon's lord is a move ahead of us. We reckoned we'd try to contact the Guild, so what does he do?»

«Takes out the Guild,» Kalam said. «How's that for arrogance?»

«Whatever arrogance that lord has,» Whiskeyjack said, grimacing, «he earned it. I'll give him that. I wonder how good this city's Guild Master is-good enough to take on Tiste And?? Unlikely.»

«And about the other thing,» Quick Ben said. «It worked.»

The sergeant stared at the wizard for half a dozen seconds, then nodded.

«We also ran into Sorry,» Kalam said, wincing as Mallet pressed a hand on his wound. The healer muttered under his breath.

«Oh? I sent her after some fat man she thought was important. How come she ran into you two?»

Quick Ben's brows had risen. «So she told the truth, then. We don't know how she found us, but she'd found the man we were looking for-and gave him to us.»

Mallet raised his hand. Where the wound had been there was now a pink scar. Kalam grunted his thanks and sat up.

Whiskeyjack tapped his fingers against the chair's arm. «If we only knew who was running this damn city, we could try it ourselves.»

The assassin sniffed. «If we start taking out Council members, maybe we'll flush out the real rulers.»

The sergeant frowned. «Not bad,» he said, rising to his feet. «Work on that. The Moon's lord knows we're here, now, with that demon popping up. We'll have to move fast.»

Fiddler spoke up. «We could blow up Majesty Hall,» he said, smirking at Hedge.

«You've got enough munitions to manage that?» Whiskeyjack asked.

Fiddler's face fell. «Well, uh, we've got enough to take out an estate, maybe. But if we pull up some of the mines we planted:»

Whiskeyjack sighed. «This is getting absurd. No, we leave things as they are.» He watched the non-existent card game. It seemed to involve complete immobility. A stand-off. The sergeant's eyes narrowed. Were they trying to tell him something?

Orange and yellow hues lit the eastern horizon, casting a coppery sheen upon the city's bricks and cobbles. Apart from the dripping of water the streets were quiet, though the first emergings of citizenry were minutes away. Soon those farmers who had depleted their supplies of grains, fruits and root crops would take to their carts and wagons and depart the city. Merchant shops and stalls would open to catch the morning wave of shoppers.

Throughout Darujhistan the Greyfaces prepared to shut the valves feeding gas to the torches lining the major avenues. These figures moved in small groups, gathering at intersections then dispersing with the day's first bell.

Sorry watched Crokus wearily ascend a tenement's front steps. She stood half a block down the street, within shadows that seemed reluctant to disappear despite the growing light.

A short while earlier, she'd felt the Empire demon's death strike her almost physically, deep in her chest. Normally demons fled back to their realm once enough damage had been inflicted on them, enough to sever the links of summoning. But the Korvalah had not been simply cut down, or forcibly dismissed. There'd been a finality to its end that had left her shaken. A death in truth. She still recalled its silent, despairing scream ringing in her head.

All the ambivalence surrounding the Coin Bearer was gone, driven away. She knew now she would kill him. It had to be done, and soon. All that remained before she could do so was the mystery of his actions. To what extent was Oponn using the boy?

She knew he'd seen her in the D'Arles» garden, just before he'd escaped to the estate's roof. Seeing the light come on behind the balcony's sliding doors had clinched her decision to continue following Crokus. The D'Arle family was powerful in Darujhistan. That the boy seemed to be involved in a clandestine love affair with the daughter was an outrageous proposition, yet what else could she conclude? So, the question remained: was Opornn working through the boy directly, insinuating a peculiar influence with the City Council? What powers of influence did this young maiden possess?

Only a matter of position, of possible scandal. Yet what was the political position of Councilman Estraysian D'Arle? Sorry realized that even though she'd learned much of Darujhistan's political arena she still did not know enough to second-guess Oponn's moves. Councilman D'Arle was Turban Orr's principal opposition on this proclamation-of-neutrality business-but what did that matter? The Malazan Empire could not care less. Unless the proclamation was no more than a feint.

Was this Turban Orr seeking to lay the groundwork for an Empire-backed coup?

The answers to such questions would be slow in coming. She knew she'd have to exercise patience. Of course, patience was her finest quality. She'd hoped that showing herself to Crokus a second time, there in the garden, might trigger panic in the lad-or, at the very least, annoy Oponn if indeed the god's control was as direct as that.

Sorry had watched on, from the shadows she drew around her, as the assassin named Rallick took the lad to task. She'd also lingered to catch the conversation between Rallick and Murillio. It seemed the boy had protectors, and an odd lot they were, assuming that the fat little man, Kruppe, was some kind of group leader. Hearing that they were to take Crokus out of the city on behalf of their «master» made the whole situation even more intriguing.

She knew she'd have to make her move soon. The protection offered by Kruppe and this Murillio would not impede her much, she expected. Though Kruppe was certainly more than he seemed, violence hardly seemed his major skill.

She would kill Crokus, then, outside the city. As soon as she discovered the nature of their mission, and who their master was. As soon as everything had fallen into place.

Sergeant Whiskeyjack would have to wait a while longer for her return. Sorry smiled at that, knowing full well how relieved the whole squad would be that she was nowhere to be seen. As for that whole matter-the threat presented by Quick Ben and Kalam-well, everything in its own time.

Alchemist Baruk's savage migraine was ebbing. Whatever presence had been unleashed in the city was gone. He sat in his reading chair, pressing a cloth-wrapped chunk of ice against his forehead. It had been a conjuring. He felt certain of that. The emanations stank of demonry. But there'd been more. The moment before the presence vanished, Baruk had experienced a mental wrench that came close to driving him into unconsciousness.

He'd shared the creature's final death scream, his own shriek echoing down the hall and bringing his men-at-arms shouting to his bedroom door.

Baruk felt a wrongness, deep within him, as if his soul had been battered. For a single, brief second, he'd looked upon a world of absolute darkness, and from that darkness came sounds, the creak of wooden wheels, the clank of chains, the groans of a thousand imprisoned souls.

Then it was gone, and he found himself sitting in his chair, Roald kneeling at his side with a pail of ice from the cellar.

He now sat in his study, alone, and the ice pressed against his brow was warm compared to what he felt in his heart.

There was a knock at the door, and Roald entered, his face creased with worry. «Lord, you have a visitor.»

«I have? At this hour?» He rose shakily to his feet. «Who is it?»

«Lord Anomander Rake.» Roald hesitated. «And: another.»

Frowning, Baruk waved a hand. «Bring them in.»

«Yes, Lord.»

Rake entered, holding a dog-sized winged creature by the nape of its neck. The creature twisted and hissed, then turned pleading eyes to Baruk.

«This thing was following me here,» Rake said. «Yours?»

Startled, Baruk managed a nod.

«I thought as much,» Rake said, releasing the demon to flap across the room and land at the alchemist's slippered feet.

Baruk gazed down on it. The demon was trembling.

Rake strode to a chair and sat, stretching out his long legs. «A busy night,» he said.

Baruk gestured and the demon vanished with a faint popping sound.

«Indeed,» he said, his voice hard. «My servant was on a mission. I had no idea it would involve you.» He went to stand before the Tiste And?. «Why were you in the middle of an assassin war?»

«Why not?» Rake answered. «I started it.»

«What?»

He smiled up at Baruk. «You don't know the Empress as well as I do Baruk.»

«Please explain.» Colour had risen in the alchemist's face.

Rake looked away. «Tell me this, Baruk,» he said, turning to meet the alchemist's gaze, «who in this city is most likely to be aware of your secret council? And who might benefit the most from your removal? And, most importantly, who in this city is capable of killing you?»

Baruk did not answer immediately. He walked slowly to the table where a newly painted map had been laid out. He leaned over it, hands resting on the edge. «You suspect the Empress might seek out Vorcan,» he said. «A contract to offer.»

«On you and the rest of the High Mages,» Rake said, behind him. «The Empress has sent a Claw here, not so much to worry your city's defencc but to establish contact with the Master Assassin. I wasn't entirely certain that I was right in this, but I meant to prevent that contact.»

Baruk's eyes remained on the map's red wash. «So you sent your own assassins to wipe out her Guild. To flush her out.» He faced Rake. «And then what? Kill her? All on the basis of some suspicion of yours?»

«This night,» Rake said calmly, «we prevented the Claw from making that contact. Your demon's report will confirm this. Besides, you are suggesting that the death of Vorcan and the decimation of the city assassins is a bad thing, are you?»

«I fear I am.» Baruk was pacing, struggling against a growing sense outrage. «I may not know the Empress as well as you, Rake,» he said, gritting his teeth, «but I do know this city-far better than you ever will.»

He glared at the Tiste And?. «To you, Darujhistan is just another battle ground for your private war with the Empress. You don't give a damm about how this city survives-how it has managed to survive three thousand years.»

Rake shrugged. «Enlighten me.»

«The City Council has its function, a vital one. They are the & machine. True, Majesty Hall is a place of pettiness, corruption, endless bickering but, despite all that, it's also a place where things get done.»

«What's that got to do with Vorcan and her gang of killers?»

Baruk grimaced. «Like any burdened wagon, the wheels require grease.

Without the option of assassination the noble families would have long since destroyed themselves, taking the city with them, through civil war.

Secondly, the Guild's efficiency provides a measure of control on vendettas, arguments and so forth. It is the guaranteed option of bloodshed, and bloodshed is messy. Usually too messy for the nobility's sensibilities.»

«Curious,» Rake said. «Nevertheless, don't you think that Vorcan would listen very carefully indeed to an offer from the Empress? After all, Laseen has the precedent of handing over the rule of a conquered city to an assassin. In fact, at least a third of her present High Fists come from that profession.»

«You are missing the point!» Baruk's face was dark. «You did not consult us, and that cannot be tolerated.»

«You haven't answered me,» Rake retorted, in a voice quiet and cold.

«Would Vorcan take the contract? Could she manage it? Is she that good, Baruk?»

The alchemist turned away. «I don't know. That's my answer, to all three questions.»

Rake stared hard at Baruk. «If you were indeed nothing more than an alchemist, I might believe you.»

Baruk's smile was wry. «Why would you think me anything but?»

Now it was Rake's turn to smile. «There are few who would argue with me without flinching. I am unused to be addressed as an equal.»

«There are many paths to Ascendancy, some more subtle than others.»

Baruk walked over to the mantel above the fireplace, took a carafe, then went to the shelf behind his desk and retrieved two crystal goblets. «She's a High Mage. We all have magical defences, but against her:» He filled the goblets with wine.

Rake joined the alchemist. He accepted the glass and raised it between them. «I apologize for not informing you. In truth, the thought hadn't crossed my mind as being especially important. Until tonight, I was acting on a theory, nothing more. I didn't consider the ripples a grounded Guild might cause.»

Baruk sipped his wine. «Anomander Rake, tell me something. There was a presence in our city tonight-a conjuring.»

«One of Tayschrenn's Korvalah demons,» Rake answered. «Released by a Claw wizard.» He took a mouthful of the tart liquid, let it roll for a moment, then swallowed with satisfaction. «It's gone.»

«Gone?» Baruk asked quietly. «Where?»

«Out of Tayschrenn's reach,» Rake said, a tight smile on his lips. «Out of anyone's reach.»

«Your sword,» Baruk said, repressing a shiver as the memory of that closing vision returned to him. The creak of wheels, the clank of chains, the groans of a thousand lost souls. And darkness.

«Oh, yes,» Rake said, refilling his goblet. «I received the two Pale wizards» heads. As you promised. I admire your efficiency, Baruk. Did they protest?»

Baruk paled. «I explained to them the options,» he said quietly. «No, they didn't protest.»

Rake's soft laugh chilled the blood in Baruk's veins.

At the distant sound Kruppe rose. The small fire flickered steadily before him, but its heat seemed less. «Ah,» he sighed, «Kruppe's hands are near numb, yet his ears are as sharp as ever. Listen to this faint sound in the very nether regions of his present dream. Does he know its source?»

«Perhaps,» K'rul said beside him.

Startled, Kruppe turned, his eyebrows rising. «Kruppe thought you long gone, Eldering One. None the less, he is thankful for your company.»

The hooded god nodded. «All is well with the child Tattersail. The Rhivi protect her, and she grows swiftly, as is the nature of Soletaken. A powerful warlord now shelters her.»

«Good,» Kruppe said, smiling. The noises in the distance drew his attention again. He stared out into the darkness, seeing nothing.

«Tell me, Kruppe,» K'rul said, «what do you hear?»

«The passing of a great wagon or some such thing,» he replied, with a frown. «I hear its wheels, and chains, and the groaning of slaves.»

«Its name is Dragnipur,» K'rul said. «And it is a sword.» Kruppe's frown deepened. «How can a wagon and slaves be a sword?»

«Forged in darkness, it chains souls to the world that existed before the coming of light. Kruppe, its wielder is among you.»

In Kruppe's mind his Deck of Dragons rose. He saw the image of half man, half dragon-the Knight of High House Darkness, also known as the Son of Darkness. The man held aloft a black sword trailing smoky chains. «The Knight is in Darujhistan?» he asked, fighting a shiver of fear.

«In Darujhistan,» K'rul replied. «Around Darujhistan. Above Darujhistan. His presence is a lodestone to power, and great is the danger.» The Elder God faced Kruppe. «He is in league with Master Baruk and the T'orrud Cabal-Darujhistan's secret rulers have found a two-edged ally. Dragnipur tasted a demon's soul this night, Kruppe, in your city. It is never thirsty for long, and it will feed on more blood before this is done.»

«Can anyone withstand it?» Kruppe asked.

K'rul shrugged. «None could when it was first forged, but that was long ago, before even my time. I cannot answer for the present. I have one other piece of information, Kruppe, a small piece, I'm afraid.»

«Kruppe hearkens.»

«The journey Master Baruk is sending you on to the Gadrobi Hills. Elder magic brews anew, after so long. It is Tellann-of the Imass-but what it touches is Omtose Phellack-Jaghut Elder magic. Kruppe, stay out of their way. Especially guard the Coin Bearer. What is about to come is a danger as grave as the Knight and his sword, and as ancient.

«Step carefully, Kruppe.»

«Kruppe always steps carefully, Eldering One.»

BOOK FIVE

Beyond these thin hide walls a child sits, before her on worn silk a Deck is arrayed.

She cannot yet speak and the scenes before her she's never before seen in this life.

The child gazes upon a lone card named Obelisk, the stone grey she can feel its roughness in her mind.

Obelisk stands buried in a grassy knoll like a knuckle protruded from the earth, past and future.

This child's eyes are wide with terror, for cracks have appeared in the stone of stones and she, knows the shattering is begun.

Silverfox Outrider Hurlochel, 6th Army la