Gardens of the Moon

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Sergeant whiskeyjack strode to the bedside. «You sure you're up to it?» he asked Kalam.

The assassin, sitting with his back against the wall, glanced up from honing his long knives. «Not much choice, is there?» He returned to his sharpening.

Whiskeyjack's expression was drawn and haggard from lack of gleep, He looked across the small room to where Quick Ben crouched in the corner. A fragment of bedroll was clutched in the wizard's hands, and his eyes were closed.

At the table, Fiddler and Hedge had dismantled their massive arbalest.

They now sat cleaning and examining each piece. They were looking at a fight ahead of them.

Whiskeyjack shared their conviction. Each hour that passed brought their many hunters that much closer. Of those it was the Tiste And? he feared the most. His squad was good, but not that good.

By the window was Trotts, leaning against the wall with his burly arms crossed. And against one wall slept Mallet, his snores loud in the room.

The sergeant returned his attention to Kalam. «It's a long shot, isn't it?» The assassin nodded. «No reason for the man to keep showing himself. They got burned the last time.» He shrugged. «I'll try the inn again. If anything, someone will mark me and the Guild will come. If I can get a word in before they kill me, there's a chance. It's not much:»

«: but it'll have to do,» Whiskeyjack finished. «You've got tomorrow. If we draw a blank,» he looked over to Fiddler and Hedge and found their eyes on him, «we detonate the intersections. Do damage, hurt them.»

The two saboteurs grinned their anticipation.

Quick Ben's loud hiss of frustration brought everyone round. The wizard's eyes had opened. He tossed the torn cloth contemptuously on to the floor. «No good, Sergeant,» he said. «Can't find Sorry anywhere.»

Kalam rumbled a curse and thrust his weapons into their scabbards.

«So, what does that mean?» Whiskeyjack asked the wizard.

«Most likely,» Quick Ben said, «she's dead.» He gestured at the cloth. «With that, there's no way the Rope could hide from me. Not while still possessing Sorry.»

«Maybe once you told him you'd figured him out,» Fiddler said, «he tossed in his coins and quit the game.»

Quick Ben made a face. «The Rope isn't scared of us, Fiddler. Come back to earth. If anything, he'd be coming down on us. Shadowthrone must've told him by now who I am or, rather, who I once was. It's not the Rope's business, but Shadowthrone might insist. Gods don't like being cheated. Especially being cheated twice.» He climbed to his feet and stretched the kinks from his back. He met Whiskeyjack's gaze. «I don't understand this, Sergeant. I'm stumped.»

«Do we abandon her?» Whiskeyjack asked.

Quick Ben nodded. «Might as well.» He paused, then stepped forward. «We were all wishing we were wrong about her,» he said, «but what Sorry did had nothing to do with being human. And, as far as I'm concerned, I'm glad of that.»

«I'd hate to think,» Kalam said, from the bed, «that evil was real, that it existed with a face as plain as the next man's. I know, Whiskeyjack, you've got your reasons for wanting it that way.»

Quick Ben moved closer to the sergeant, his gaze softening. «Keeps you sane every time you order somebody to die,» he said. «We all know about that, Sergeant. And we'd be the last to suggest there's some other way that maybe you haven't thought of yet.»

«Well, I'm glad to hear it,» Whiskeyjack growled. He surveyed everyone in the room, seeing that Mallet was awake and watching him.

«Anybody else got something to say?»

«I have,» Fiddler said, then ducked at the sergeant's glower. «Well, you asked, didn't you?»

«Out with it, then.»

Fiddler straightened in his chair and cleared his throat. Hedge poked him in the ribs as he was about to begin. After a menacing scowl, he tried again. «It's like this, Sergeant. We've seen a hell of a lot of our friends die, right? And maybe we didn't have to give the orders, so maybe you think it's easier for us. But I don't think so. You see, to us those people were living, breathing. They were friends. When they die, it hurts. But you go around telling yourself that the only way to keep from going mad is to take all that away from them, so you don't have to think about it, so you don't have to feel anything when they die. But, damn, when you take away everybody else's humanity, you take away your own. And that'll drive you mad as sure as anything. It's that hurt we feel that makes us keep going, Sergeant. And maybe we're not getting anywhere, but at least we're not running away from anything.»

There was silence in the room. Then Hedge punched Fiddler in the arm. «I'll be damned! You got a brain in there, after all. I guess I been wrong about you all these years.»

«Yeah, right,» Fiddler said, rolling his eyes at Mallet, «and who is it who's burned his hair off so many times he's gotta wear some ugly leather cap all the time, hey?»

Mallet laughed, but the tension remained and everyone's gaze swung back to fix on their sergeant. Slowly, Whiskeyjack studied each man in his squad. He saw the caring in their eyes, the open offer to the friendship he'd spent years suppressing. All that time pushing them away, pushing everyone away, and the stubborn bastards just kept on coming back.

So Sorry hadn't been human. His conviction that all she'd done was within the possibilities of humanity now seemed to rest on uncertain ground. But it did not collapse. He'd seen too much in his life. There'd be no sudden faith in his view of human history, no burgeoning optimism to chase away all the demonic memories of the hells he'd lived through.

Nil Still, there came a time when some denials lost their function, when the world's relentless battering at him made his foolishness obvious even to himself. He was, finally, and after all these years, among friends. That was a hard admission and he realized he was already impatient with it.

«All right,» he growled, «enough with the flapping lips. We've got work to do. Corporal?»

«Sergeant?» Kalam replied.

«Get yourself ready. You've got the daylight hours to re-establish contact with the Assassins» Guild. Meanwhile, I want everyone else to lay out their weapons and give them a good cleaning. Repairs to armour.

There'll be an inspection, and if I find a single damn thing I don't like, there'll be hell coming down. Understood?»

«We hear ya,» Mallet said, grinning.

ed I ed ie, ilk tre go to $e ~en s a ain ~e'd ism k Despite their slow pace, Coll's wound had opened half a dozen times since they'd begun the journey. He'd found a way of sitting in his saddle, leaning to one side and taking most of the weight on his uninjured leg, and since this morning the wound had yet to reopen. The awkward position brought pains and cramps to the rest of him, however.

Paran knew a foul mood when he saw one. Though it was clear to both of them that a bond had formed between them, comfortable and unfettered by pretences, they'd exchanged but scant words as the ravages of Coll's wound continued to take its toll.

Coll's entire left leg, from the hip where the sword had done its damage down to the foot, was a uniform sun-darkened brown colour.

Clots of drying blood gathered in the joints of his upper leg plates and knee guard. As the thigh swelled, they were forced to slice the leather padding beneath the plate.

Succour had been denied them at the Catlin Bridge garrison, since the lone surgeon stationed there had been sleeping off one of his «bad nights'.

Clean bandages had been donated, though, and it was these-already soaked through-that now covered the wound.

There was little traffic on Jammit's Worry despite the city's walls being within sight. The flood of refugees from the north had since ended, and those who would gather for the Gedderone Festival had already done so.

As they approached the edge of Worrytown, Coll raised himself from the semi-conscious state he'd been in for the last few hours. His face was deathly white. «Is this Worry Gate?» he asked dully.

«I believe so,» Paran said, since they were on the road sharing that strange name. «Will we be permitted to pass within?» he asked. «Will they call for a surgeon?»

Coll shook his head. «Take me on through. Phoenix Inn. Take me to the Phoenix Inn.» His head sagged again.

«Very well, Coll.» He'd be surprised if the guards permitted it, and he'd need a story to tell them, though Coll had said nothing of how he'd been wounded. «I hope,» he muttered, «there's someone in this Phoenix Inn with a healer's touch.» The man looked bad. Paran fixed his gaze on the city's gates. He'd already seen enough to understand why the Empress wanted it so avidly. «Darujhistan.» He sighed. «My, but you are a wonder, aren't you?»

Rallick nudged himself another inch upward. His limbs trembled with exhaustion. If not for the morning shadows on this side of the belfry, he'd have been spotted long ago. As it was, he would not remain hidden much longer.

Taking the stairs would have been suicide in the darkness. Ocelot would have set alarms all along the way-the man was no fool at covering the approaches to his position.

If he was up there, Rallick reminded himself. If not, Coll was in trouble. There was no telling if his friend had arrived at the gates yet, and the silence from the top of the belfry could mean anything. He paused to rest and glanced up. Ten feet to go, the most critical ones yet. He was so tired it was all he could do simply to retain the handholds. The silent approach was now beyond him. His only advantage lay in that Ocelot's concentration would be eastward, while he now climbed the west side of the tower.

He drew some deep breaths, then reached for another handhold.

Passers-by stopped to watch Paran and Coll move slowly through Worrytown towards the gate. Ignoring them, and the questions they asked, the captain focused his attention on the two guards at the gate itself. They'd spotted him and Coll, and now stood waiting.

Reaching the gate, Paran motioned that they would pass through. One guard nodded while the other walked alongside the captain's horse.

«Your friend needs a surgeon,» he said. «If you wait just inside we can have one here in five minutes.»

Paran refused the offer. «We need to find the Phoenix Inn. I'm from the north, never been here before. The man said the Phoenix Inn, so that's where I'm going to take him.»

The guard was dubious. «Be surprised if he'd make it that far. But if that's what you want, the least we can do is give you an escort.»

As they emerged from the gate's shadow the other guard cried out in surprise.

Paran held his breath as the man stepped close to Coll. «I know him,» he said. «He's Coll jhamin, of House jhamin. I served under him.» «What? I thought Coll died a few years back» the other guard said «Screw the writs,» his companion snapped. «I know what I know, Vildron. This is Coll, all right.»

«He wants to go to the Phoenix Inn,» Paran told the man. «That's the» The man nodded. «Let's do it right, though.» He turned to the other guard. «I'll take the grief if there's any, Vildron. Get me the wagon-it's still hitched up from this morning, right?» The guard smiled up at Paran «Thanks for getting him here. Some of us in the city still got eyes, and damn what the highbrows whisper. We'll put him in the back of the

Paran relaxed. «Thanks, soldier.» He looked past the man, eager to see what he could of the city now that the wall was behind him. Immediately before them rose a humped hill, its sides overgrown with weeds and gnarled trees. On its summit squatted a temple of some kind, abandoned long ago, from which a square-sided tower rose, capped by a bronze A, — A rnnf A'shis e es reached the belfry's open-sided platform he saw a. Rallick raised his head cautiously over the platform's edge. He almost gasped aloud. The belfry was empty. Then he remembered Ocelot's sorcery. Holding his breath, he strained one last time with leaden arms, drawing himself flat on to the platform. As soon as he moved to gather in his feet, the barren stone of the platform shimmered and he saw Ocelot lying before him, crossbow cocked, taking aim at something. Rallick unsheathed his knives and moved all at once. But his ex. Ocelot spun on to his back, weapon swinging to fix on Rallick. The Clan Leader's face twisted into a mask of rage and fear. He wasted no time with words and immediately released the quarrel set in his cross. Rallick tensed for the impact that he was certain would throw him across the platform and possibly over the edge. A flash of red before his chest blinded him momentarily, but no impact came. Blinking, Rallick looked down. The quarrel had vanished. The truth came to him in an instant. The quarrel had been magic, created by sorcery to fly unimpeded but Baruk's rusty powder had worked. Even as this thought burst Ocelot swore and dropped the crossbow. As he reached for his knife, Rallick landed on him. A loud grunt sounded from the Clan Leader, his eyes squeezing shut in pain.

1&-akywv, axww&t "X-aggm ~n V,% figWha-ria against Ocelot's chest. The weapon scraped across mail beneath the cloth shirt. Damn, the man had learned something from that other night-and this was Rallick's own precaution, come to defy him now. The blade in his left hand he angled upward, under Ocelot's right arm. The weapon's point cut into flesh, then continued on into the man's armpit.

Rallick saw, inches from his face, the dagger's tip emerge from the cloth covering Ocelot's right shoulder, followed by a bloom of blood. He heard a knife skitter across the flagstones.

Teeth bared, Ocelot snapped his left hand up to the back of Rallick's neck, finding his braid. He gave it a savage yank, twisting Rallick's head around. Then he tried to sink his teeth into Rallick's neck.

Ocelot gasped as Rallick jammed a knee into his crotch. He tightened his hold on the braid again, this time near its knotted end.

Rallick heard the snick of metal and attempted desperately to roll to his right. Wounded as Ocelot's right arm was, it struck his body with enough force to drive the wedged wrist-blade through the chain links and into his chest. A dull fire blossomed from the wound. Ocelot jerked the blade free and, still holding Rallick's braid, drew back for another stab.

Rallick brought up his right arm and, in a single sweeping motion, sliced through his braid. Freed, he pushed himself on to that side, withdrawing the knife in his left hand as he did so. Ocelot slashed wildly at his face, missing by inches.

With all the remaining strength in his left arm, Rallick slammed his knife into Ocelot's stomach. Links snapped and the blade sank to its hilt.

The Clan Leader's body doubled up, curling around the embedded weapon. Gasping, Rallick lurched forward and hammered the other dagger into Ocelot's forehead.

Rallick lay unmoving for a time, wondering at the absence of pain.

The plan would fall to Murillio now. Coll would be avenged. Murillio could handle it-he had no choice.

Ocelot's body seemed to grow heavier on him despite the blood ing from it. «I'd always believed I was this man's match,» he muttered. He pushed himself from the still-twitching body and rolled on to his back in the centre of the platform. He'd hoped to see sky, to look one last time on its bright, depthless blue. Instead, he found himself looking at the underside of the belfry's roof, its ancient stone arch crowded with nesting bats. This detail fixed itself in his head as he felt the blood stream from his chest. He thought he could see beady eyes glittering down at him.

After seeing no other sign of movement on the belfry, Paran's gaze swung to the avenue on his left. Vildron approached, seated on a wagon drawn by two horses. The guard waiting beside Coll's horse said, «Give me a hand here, will you? Let's get the old man down.»

Paran dismounted and hurried to help him. He glanced at Coll's face.

Though still hunched on the saddle, he was unconscious. How much longer could he last? If that was me, Paran realized, I'd be dead by now.

«After all this,» he growled as they dragged Coll from the saddle, «you'd damn well better live.»

Groaning, Serrat rolled on to her back. The sun beat down hot against her eyelids as the scattered fragments of her memory gathered. The Tiste And? had been about to make her move on the woman in the alley below. With that one dead, the Coin Bearer's protectors would number but one. And when they left the tenement block under cover of darkness, they'd walk right into the trap she'd set.

The assassin-mage opened her eyes to a mid-morning sun overhead.

Her daggers, which she'd held in her hands as she crouched at the rooftop's edge, now lay on the pebbled surface beside her, neatly placed side by side. A thick, dull ache throbbed in the back of her skull. She probed the wound, wincing, then sat up.

The world spun, then settled. Serrat was bewildered and angry. She'd been blind-sided, and whoever had done it was good, good enough to sneak up on a Tiste And? assassin-mage. And that was worrying, since they'd yet to meet such a match in Darujhistan, with the exception of those two Claw on the night of the ambush. But if it had been the Claw, she'd be dead now.

Instead, the arrangements looked to have been designed more with embarrassment in mind than anything else. Leaving her here in broad daylight, weapons beside her, hinted of a subtle and cunning sense of humour. Oponn? Possibly, though gods rarely acted so directly, preferring unwitting agents culled from among the mortal masses.

One certainty rose from the mystery, however, and that was that she'd lost her opportunity to kill the Coin Bearer-at least, for another day.

Next time, she vowed, as she climbed to her feet and accessed her Kurald Galain Warren, her secret foes would find her ready for them.

The air around her shimmered with sorcery. When it settled, Serrat was gone.

Motes of dust drifted through the dead, hot air of the Phoenix Inn's attic.

The slanting ceiling rose from five feet along the east wall to seven feet along the west wall. Sunlight streamed in from windows at each end of the long and narrow room.

Both Crokus and Apsalar slept, though at opposite ends of the room.

Sitting on, a crate beside the trap door, Meese cleaned her nails with a sliver of wood. Leaving Mallet's tenement and making their way across the rooftops to this hiding place had proved an easy task. Too easy, in fact. Irilta reported that no one on the streets had followed them. And the rooftops themselves had been empty of life. It was as if a path free of obstruction had been made for them.

More of the Eel's brilliance at work? Meese grunted softly. Maybe.

More likely Meese was putting too much weight on the instinctive unease that travelled like an elusive itch along her spine. Even now she felt hidden eyes upon them, and that, she told herself, glaring around the musty attic, was impossible.

There came a soft knock at the trap-door. The door swung up and Irilta appeared. «Meese?» she whispered loudly.

«Breathing down your neck,» Meese rumbled, tossing the wood sliver on to the oily floor. «Tell Scurve this place is a fire waiting to happen.»

Irilta grunted as she pulled herself into the room. She shut the trap door and wiped the dust from her hands. «Getting strange downstairs,» she said. «City wagon rolls up and off comes a guard and some other fellow carrying Coll between them. The old fool's near-dead from a sword cut. They put him in Kruppe's room a floor down. Sulty's run off to find a cutter, but it don't look good. Not good at all.»

Meese squinted in the dusty air, her gaze fixing on Crokus where he still slept. «What's the other one look like?» she asked.

Irilta grinned. «Good enough for a roll on the mat, I'd say. Said he found Coll on Jammit's Worry, bleeding all over the place. Coll woke up long enough to tell him to ride here. The guy's downstairs in the bar right now, eating enough for three men.»

Meese grunted. «Foreigner?»

Irilta strode to the window facing the street. «Speaks Daru like he was born to it. But he said he'd come down from the north. Pale, Genabaris before that. He's got the soldier about him, I'd say.»

«Any word from the Eel yet?»

«We keep the lad here for now.»

«And the girl?»

«The same.»

Meese sighed loudly. «Crokus ain't gonna like being cooped up here.»

Irilta glared over at Crokus's sleeping form. Was the lad truly asleep?

«No choice. Got word that there's a couple of guardsmen waiting at Mammot's place-too late, of course, but they've got damn close.» Irilta rubbed dust from the window and leaned forward. «Sometimes I swear I see someone, or maybe something. Then I blink and it's gone.»

«Know what you mean.» Bones creaking, Meese pushed herself to her feet. «I think even the Eel's beginning to sweat.» She chuckled. «Life's heating up, friend. Rolling times ahead.»

Irilta nodded grimly. «Roll on, roll on.»

Captain Paran refilled his tankard for the third time. Was this what that Tiste And? had meant about his luck turning? Since coming to this land he'd found three friends-something wholly unexpected and new to him, precious, in fact. But the Tattersail he knew was dead, and in her place: a child. Toc was dead. And now it looked like Coll would join that list.

He ran a finger through a pool of spilled beer on the table, creating a river leading to a crack between two planks, then watched as the beer drained down and out of sight. He felt a spreading wetness on his right shin but ignored it as his eyes focused on the crack. The wood had been bolted down, joining the thick planks to an equally robust frame of legs.

What had Rake said? Paran rose and unclipped his sword belt. He laid it on the table, then withdrew Chance.

The few regulars in the bar fell silent and turned to watch him. Behind the counter, Scurve reached for his club.

The captain noticed none of this. With the sword in his right hand, he set the point into the crack and brought the weapon vertical. Working it back and forth, he managed to drive it close to half its length between the planks. Then he sat down again and reached for his beer.

Everyone relaxed, and spoke among themselves in shared confusion.

Paran swallowed a mouthful of beer, frowning at Chance. What had Rake said? When your luck turns, break the sword. Or give it to your worst enemy. He doubted Oponn would accept it, however. And that meant breaking it. The sword had been with him for a long time. He'd used it in battle only once, and that had been against the Hound.

Faintly, he heard the words of one of his childhood tutors. The man's lined face rose into his thoughts to accompany the voice. «Those whom the gods choose, «tis said, they first separate from other mortals-by treachery, by stripping from you your spirit's lifeblood. The gods will take all your loved ones, one by one, to their death. And, as you harden, as you become what they seek, the gods smile and nod. Each company you shun brings you closer to them. «Tis the shaping of a tool, son, the prod and pull, and the final succour they offer you is to end your loneliness-the very isolation they helped you create. Never get noticed, boy.»

Had the shaping begun? Paran scowled. Was he responsible for taking Coll's life? The mere brush of friendship between them-enough to seal the man's doom? «Oponn,» he whispered, «you've a lot to answer for, and answer for it you shall.»

He set down the tankard and rose. Then he reached for the sword.

Climbing the steps of the Phoenix Inn, Kalam paused. Damn, there it was again, this feeling that unseen eyes were fixed on him. The sensation, born of his Claw training, had struck him four times in quick succession since he'd come within sight of this bar. Heeding such warnings was what kept him alive, and yet he felt no malice in that unwanted attention-rather, it had the feel of amused curiosity, as if whoever watched him knew full well who and what he was, yet seemed unconcerned.

He shook himself, then entered the bar. As soon as he took his first step into the heavy, stagnant atmosphere, Kalam knew that something was wrong. He shut the door behind him, waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He heard breathing, the light scuff of furniture and clank of tankards coming to rest on tabletops. So, there were people here. Then why the silence?

As the grey confines of the bar grew defined, he saw that its denizens had turned their backs to him and were watching a man standing behind his table at the far end of the room. The lantern light reflected dully from a sword thrust through the table, and the man had closed one hand around its grip. He seemed oblivious to everyone else in the bar.

Kalam took a half-dozen steps, coming to the near end of the counter.

His dark eyes remained on the man with the sword, and a frown deepened the lines on his broad, flat forehead. The assassin stopped. Was it a trick of this damn light? he wondered. «No,» he said, startling the innkeeper behind the counter, «it isn't.» He pushed himself back from the counter, ran his eyes over the others in the chamber-all locals. He'd have to take the risk.

A band of tension tightened around Kalam's neck and shoulders as he strode directly for the man, who looked to be but moments away from snapping his sword's blade. The assassin plucked an empty chair from a table in his path and slammed it down one-handed opposite the man.

Startled eyes fixed on Kalam.

«Your god-given luck's holding, Captain,» the assassin rumbled, in low, close tones. «Sit down.»

His expression confused and frightened, Paran released his grip on the weapon and sank back into his seat.

Kalam followed suit and leaned forward over the table. «What's all this drama anyway?» he asked, in a whisper.

The captain frowned. «Who are you?»

Behind them conversations resumed, loud with rattled nerve «Ain't you guessed?» Kalam wagged his head. «Corporal Kalam, Ninth Squad, Bridgeburners. The last time I saw you, you was recovering from »

Paran's hands shot out and gripped Kalam's shirt. The assassin was too surprised to react and the cantain's words confused him all the more. «Is your squad's healer still alive, Corporal?»

«What? Alive? Yeah, sure, why not? What's-?»

«Shut up,» Paran snapped. «Just listen, soldier. Bring him here. Now! No questions. I'm giving you a direct order, Corporal.» He released

Kalam almost saluted, but caught himself in time. «As you command,» Paran glared at the corporal's back until the man disappeared through the front door. Then he surged to his feet. «Innkeeper!» he called, stepping around the table. «The black man will be showing up in a few minutes with company. Send them up to Coll's room on the double. Understood?» Paran strode to the stairs. As he reached them he glanced back at the sword «And nobody touch that sword,» he ordered, swinging a glare across everyone in the room. Nobody seemed inclined to challenge him.

With a sharp, satisfied nod, the captain ascended the stairs.

On the first floor, he strode down the hallway to the last room on the right. He entered without knocking to find Sulty and a local surgeon sitting at the room's lone table Coll's blanket-covered form a un. The surgeon rose. «It's no good,» he said, in a thin, reedy voice. «The «Aye,» the surgeon replied. «But it won't be for much longer. If the wound had been further down on his leg, I might have been able to cut it off. Even then, I'm afraid the poison's spread through all of him. I'm what do I owe you for the services,» the captain asked, remembering.

The surgeon frowned over at Sulty. «Why, nothing, sir. I failed.» He left. Sulty joined the captain at the bedside. She wiped her face as she looked down on Coll, but said nothing. A few minutes later she, too, left the room, unable to remain any longer.

Paran found a stool and pulled it over to the bed. He sat and leaned his forearms on his knees. He was not sure how long he sat there, staring down at the straw-littered floor, but the door slamming open behind him brought him to his feet.

A bearded man stood in the doorway, his slate-grey eyes hard and cold.

«Are you Mallet?» Paran demanded.

The man shook his head and strode inside. Behind him appeared Kalam and another man. The latter's gaze found Coll, and he walked quickly to the bed.

«I'm Sergeant Whiskeyjack,» the bearded man said quietly. «Pardon my directness, sir, but what the hell are you doing here?»

Ignoring the question, Paran joined the healer. Mallet laid a hand over the crusted bandages. He glared up at the captain. «Can't you smell the rot? He's gone.» Mallet frowned and leaned forward. «No, wait: Damn, I don't believe it.» The healer took a spoon-shaped blade from his pouch and removed the bandages. Then he began to dig into the wound with the blade. «Shedenul's Mercy, someone's stuffed this with herbs!» He drove his fingers into the wound.

Coll jerked and moaned.

Mallet grinned. «Hah, that got you going, did it? Good.» He probed deeper. «This cut's half-way through the bone,» he breathed in amazement. «Those damn herbs have poisoned his marrow. Who the hell treated this?» he asked, looking accusingly at Paran.

«I don't know,» Paran said.

«All right,» Mallet said, removing his hand and wiping it on the blankets. «Move back, everybody. Give me some room. A minute later, Captain, and this man would've been striding through Hood's Gate.» He pressed his hand down on Coll's chest and closed his eyes. «And be glad I'm as good as I am.»

«Now, Captain?»

Paran walked over to the table and motioned for the sergeant to join him. «First, has Adjunct Lorn contacted you yet?»

Whiskeyjack's blank look was sufficient answer.

«Good, I'm in time, then.» Paran glanced up at Kalam, who had stationed himself behind the sergeant. «You've been set up. The plan was to take the city, yes, but also to make certain you were all killed in the process.»

Whiskeyjack held up a hand. «A moment, sir. You and Tattersail worked this out?»

Paran closed his eyes briefly. «She's: dead. Chasing Hairlock out on the Rhivi Plain. Tayschrenn got to her. It was also her intent to find you and tell you all that I'm telling you. I'm afraid I won't be her equal as your ally once the Adjunct shows up, but at least I can prepare you somewhat.»

Kalam spoke. «I don't like the idea of Oponn's pawn supposedly helping us.»

Paran nodded. «I have it on good authority that I'm not Oponn's. That sword downstairs is, though. Your squad wizard should be able to confirm this.»

«The Adjunct's plan,» Whiskeyjack reminded him, the fingers of one hand tapping slowly on the tabletop.

«She'll have no trouble finding you. She has a talent in that area. But I fear she's not the major threat. There's a T'lan Imass with her. Maybe her mission is simply to lead him to you, then he'll handle the rest.»

Kalam cursed and began pacing behind the sergeant's chair.

Whiskeyjack reached a decision. «The satchel, Corporal.»

The assassin frowned, then picked up the sergeant's standard-issue supply satchel left beside the door. He returned and set it down on the tabletop.

Whiskeyjack released the straps and pulled out an object wrapped in burgundy silk. He removed the cloth, revealing twin yellowed bones of a human forearm. The elbow-end's ball joints were bound together with verdigrised copper wire; the wrist ends were wrapped as well, but as a misshapen knife grip, beyond which jutted a serrated blade.

«What is it?» the captain asked. «I've never seen its like before.»

«Be surprised if you had,» Whiskeyjack said. «Back in the days of the Emperor, the inner ring of military commanders each possessed one of these, the booty of a looted K'Chain Che'Malle tomb.» He grasped the bones with both hands. «It was the source of much of our success, Captain.» He rose and drove the point into the table.

A flash of white light erupted from the bones, then contracted to a swirl spinning thread-like between them. Paran heard a voice he knew.

«I was getting worried, Whiskeyjack,» High Fist Dujek growled.

«Unavoidable,» the sergeant replied, frowning at Paran. «We've had little to report: until now. But I need to know the situation in Pale, High Fist.»

"You want an update before you spill the bad news, eh? Fair enough,» Dujek said. «Tayschrenn's stumbling in circles. He was last happy when Bellurdan was killed along with Tattersail. Two more of the Old Guard gone in one fell swoop. Since then, all he's got is questions. What game is Oponn playing? Was there truly a clash between the Knight of Darkness and Shadowthrone? Did a soul-shifted puppet kidnap, torture then murder a Claw officer in Nathilog and what truths were revealed by the poor man?»

«We were not aware that Hairlock had done that, High Fist.»

«I believe you, Whiskeyjack. In any case, enough of the Empress's plans have been discovered and, indeed, she seems convinced that the dismantling of my army will pull me back under her wing, in time to saddle me with the command of the Seven Cities» garrisons and put a bloody stop to the rebellion that's brewing. She seriously miscalculated there-if only she'd paid attention to Toc the Younger's reports. Well: Laseen's intentions now seem to be riding on Adjunct Lorn and Onos T'oolan. They've reached the Jaghut barrow, Whiskeyjack.»

Mallet joined them and met Kalam's stunned gaze. Clearly, even they'd had no idea that their sergeant was so well informed. Suspicion dawned in the assassin's eyes, and Paran nodded to himself. It was happening, after all.

Dujek continued, «The Moranth Black are ready to march, but it's only for show, and to get them out of the city. So, what are we looking at, friend? The balance of the world is with you, in Darujhistan. If Lorn and Onos T'oolan succeed in unleashing the Tyrant on the city, you can be certain that you and your squad are intended to be on the casualty list.

«Closer to home, here's what you want: we're ready to move. Tayschrenn himself will trigger events when he announces the disbanding of the Bridgeburners-the blind idiot. Now, I'm waiting.»

«High Fist,» Whiskeyjack began, «Captain Paran's made it. He's sitting across from me right now. His story is that Oponn's working through his sword, not him.» He met the captain's eyes. «I believe him.»

Dujek spoke. «Captain?»

«Yes, High Fist?»

«Was Toc any help?»

Paran winced. «He gave his life for this, High Fist. The puppet Hairlock ambushed us, tossed Toc into a-a rent or something.»

There was silence, then Dujek said, his voice hoarse, «I'm sorry to hear that, Captain. More than you know. His father: Well, enough of that. Go on, Whiskeyjack.»

«No success yet in contacting the local Assassins» Guild, High Fist. We've mined the intersections, though. I'll be explaining everything to my men tonight. The question remains what to do about Captain Paran., «Understood,» Dujek replied. «Captain Paran?»

«Sir?»

«Have you come to any conclusions?» Paran glanced at Whiskeyjack. «Yes, sir. I think so.»

«So? What choice will you make, Captain?»

He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back in the chair. «High Fist,» he said slowly, «Tayschrenn killed Tattersail.» And failed, but that is a secret I will keep to myself. «The Adjunct's plan included betraying her word to me, and probably killing me in the process. But, I admit, that's secondary to what Tayschrenn did.» Looking up, he met Whiskeyjack's steady gaze. «Tattersail took care of me, and I her after that Hound. It:» he hesitated «: it meant something, High Fist.» He straightened.

«So, I gather you intend to defy the Empress. But what then? Do we challenge the Empire's hundred legions with ten thousand men? Do we proclaim an independent kingdom and wait for Laseen to make an example of us? I need more details, High Fist, before I decide whether I join you. Because, sir, I want vengeance.»

Dujek responded, «The Empress loses Genabackis, Captain. We've got the support for that. By the time the Malazan Marines arrive to reinforce the campaign, it'll already be over. The Crimson Guard won't even let them disembark. Expect Nathilog to rise up and Genabaris to follow. The Moranth alliance is about to lose its punch-though I'm afraid I can't give you the details on that.

«My plans, Captain? They might not make sense, because I don't have time to explain. But we're readying ourselves to take on a new player in the game-someone completely outside all of this, and that someone is damn nasty. He is called the Pannion Seer, who even now prepares his armies for a holy war. You want vengeance? Leave Tayschrenn to enemies closer to home. As for Lorn, she's all yours, if you can manage it. I can't offer you anything more, Captain. You can say no. Nobody will kill you for that.»

Paran stared at his hands. «I want to know when High Mage Tayschrenn gets what he deserves.»

«Agreed.»

«Very well, High Fist. As far as this present situation is concerned, however, I'd rather Sergeant Whiskeyjack remained in command.»

Dujek asked, a grin in his voice, «Whiskeyjack?»

«Accepted,» the sergeant answered. He smiled at Paran. «Welcome aboard, Captain.»

«Enough?» Dujek asked.

«We'll speak again after it's all done,» Whiskeyjack said. «Until then, High Fist, success.»

«Success, Whiskeyjack.»

The threads of light faded. As soon as they were gone Kalam rounded on his sergeant. «You old bastard! Fiddler told me Dujek wouldn't hear any talk of revolt! Not only that, the High Fist told you to walk after this mission.»

Whiskeyjack shrugged, removing the strange contraption from the table. «Things change, Corporal. When Dujek got the Adjunct's word on next year's reinforcements, it became obvious that someone was ensuring that the Genabackan Campaign would end in disaster. Now, even Dujek won't tolerate that. Obviously, plans would have to be revised.» He faced Paran, his eyes hardening. «I'm sorry, Captain, but Lorn has to live.»

«But the High Fist-»

Whiskeyjack shook his head. «She's on her way into the city, assuming that she and the Imass succeed in freeing the Jaghut. The Tyrant will need a reason to come to Darujhistan, and we can only assume that, somehow, Lorn will be that reason. She will find us, Captain. Once that happens, we'll decide, what's to be done with her, depending on what she tells us.

«If you challenge her openly, she will kill you. If necessary, she will have to die, but her demise will be subtle. Do you have problems with any of this?»

Paran released a long breath. «Can you at least explain why you went ahead and mined the city?»

«In a moment,» Whiskeyjack said, rising. «First,» he said, «who's the wounded man?»

«Not wounded any more,» Mallet said, grinning at Paran. «Just sleeping.»

Paran also rose. «In that case, I'll also explain everything. just let me go downstairs and retrieve my sword.» At the door he paused and turned to Whiskeyjack. «One more thing. Where's your recruit, Sorry?»

Kalam answered, «Missing. We know what she is, Captain. Do you?»

«Yes.» But she may not be what she once was, assuming Shadowthrone didn't lie. He thought to relate that part of his story, then dismissed the notion. He couldn't be sure, after all. Better to wait and see.

The burial chamber proved to be a small, nondescript beehive tomb, the low dome constructed of roughly dressed stones. The passageway leading to it was narrow and less than four feet high, sloping slightly downwards. The chamber's floor was of packed earth and in its centre rose a circular wall of stones, capped by a single, massive lintel stone.

Frost-crusted objects lay on this flat surface.

Tool swung to the Adjunct. «The object you seek is called a Finnest. Within it is stored the Jaghut Tyrant's powers. It is perhaps best described as a self-contained Omtose Phellack Warren. He will discovcr it is missing once fully awakened, and will unerringly hunt it down, n slowly approached Lorn blew on her numb hands, the d the lintel stone. «And while it's in my possession?» she asked.

«Your Otataral sword will deaden its aura. Not completely… The Finnest should not remain in your hands for long, Adjunct.»

She scanned the objects scattered on the stone surface. The Imass joined her. Lorn picked up a scabbarded knife, then discarded it. In this Tool could not help her. She had to rely upon her own senses, honed by the strange, unpredictable effects of the Otataral. A mirror set in an antler caught her eye. The mica surface was latticed in a web of frost, yet it seemed to glimmer with a light of its own. She reached for it, then hesitated. Beside it, almost lost among the crystalline frost, was a small, round object. It lay upon a flap of hide. Lorn frowned, then picked it up.

As its ice coating melted, she saw that it was not perfectly round. She polished the blackened surface and studied it closely.

«I believe it is an acorn,» Tool said.

Lorn nodded. «And it's the Finnest.» Her gaze fell to the capped mound of rocks. «What an odd choice.»

The Imass shrugged in a clatter of bones. «The Jaghut are odd people.»

«Tool, they weren't very war-like, were they? I mean, before your kind sought to destroy them.»

The Imass was slow to reply. «Even then,» he said at last. «The key lay in making them angry, for then they destroyed indiscriminately, including their own.»

Lorn shut her eyes briefly. She pocketed the Finnest. «Let's get out of here.»

«Yes, Adjunct. Even now the Jaghut Tyrant stirs.»