Gardens of the Moon

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Shadows crowded the garden's undergrowth. Adjunct lorn rose from her crouch and brushed the dirt from her hands. «Find an acorn.» She smiled to herself. «Plant it.»

Somewhere beyond the heavily wooded garden, servants shouted at each other as they scrambled about making last-minute arrangements.

She hitched her cloak's tail into her belt and quietly slipped among the boles of vine-wrapped trees. A moment later the back wall came into view.

An alley lay beyond, narrow and choked with the leaves and fallen branches from the gardens rising above the walls on its either side. Her route in-and now out-was a thing of ease. She scaled the rough-stoned wall, grasping vines when necessary, then slid over the top.

She landed with a soft crunch of twigs and dry leaves, within shadows as deep as those in the garden. She adjusted her cloak, then walked to one end of the alley where she leaned against a corner, crossed her arms and smiled at the crowds passing to and fro on the street before her.

Two tasks left to perform, then she would leave this city. One of those tasks, however, might prove impossible. She sensed nothing of Sorry's presence. Perhaps the woman was indeed dead. Under the circumstances it was the only explanation.

She watched the sea of people, its tide of faces swirling past. The latent madness there made her uneasy, especially with the city's guards maintaining an aloof distance. She wondered at the taint of terror in that multitude of faces, and how almost every face seemed familiar.

Darujhistan blurred in her mind, becoming a hundred other cities, each rising out of her past as if on parade. joy and fear, agony and laughter-the expressions merged into one, the sounds coming to her no different from each other. She could distinguish nothing, the faces becoming expressionless, the sounds a roar of history without meaning.

Lorn passed a hand over her eyes, then staggered back a step and reeled into the alley's shadows behind her. She slid down one wall into a sagging crouch. A celebration of insignificance. Is that all we are in the end? Listen to them! In a few hours the city's intersections would explode. Hundreds would die instantly, thousands to follow. Amid the rubble of shattered cobbles and toppled buildings would be these faces, locked in expressions somewhere between joy and terror. And from the dying would come sounds, hopeless cries that dwindled in the passing of pain.

She'd seen them all before, those faces. She knew them all, knew the sound of their voices, sounds mired in human emotions, sounds clear and pure with thought, and sounds wavering in that chasm between the two.

Is this, she wondered, my legacy? And one day I'll be just one more of those faces, frozen in death and wonder.

Lorn shook her head, but it was a wan effort. She realized, with sudden comprehension, that she was breaking down. The Adjunct was cracking, its armour crumbling and the lustre gone from its marbled grandeur. A title as meaningless as the woman bearing it. The Empress-just another face she'd seen somewhere before, a mask behind which someone hid from mortality.

«No use hiding,» she whispered, frowning down at the dead leaves and branches around her. «No use.» A few minutes later she pushed herself upright once again. She brushed the dirt meticulously from her cloak. One task remained within her abilities. Find the Coin Bearer. Kill him, and take Oponn's Coin.

Make the god pay for its intrusion in Empire affairs-the Empress and Tayschrenn would see to that.

The task demanded concentration, fixing her senses upon one particular signature. It would be her last act, she knew. But she would succeed.

Death at the hands of failure was unthinkable. Lorn turned to the street.

Dusk crept from the ground and engulfed the crowds. Far off to the east thunder sounded, yet the air was dry, with no hint of rain. She checked her weapons. «The Adjunct's mission,» she said quietly, «is almost done.»

She entered the street and disappeared into the mob.

Kruppe rose from his table at the Phoenix Inn and attempted to fasten the last button on his waistcoat. Failing, he let his stomach relax once again and let loose a weary sigh. Well, at least the coat had been cleaned.

He adjusted the cuffs of his new shirt, then walked out of the mostly empty bar.

He'd spent the last hour seated at his table, to all outward appearances musing on nothing of great importance, though in his head a pattern formed, born of his Talent, and it disturbed him greatly. Meese and Irilta losing Crokus and the girl brought everything into focus-as with most unwitting servants of the gods, once the game was done so was the servant's life. The Coin might be gambled in a single contest, but to have it floating around indefinitely was far too dangerous. No, Crokus would find his luck abandoning him when he needed it most, and it would cost the lad his life.

«No, no,» Kruppe had murmured over his tankard. «Kruppe can't permit that.» Yet the pattern of success remained elusive. He felt certain he had covered all the potential threats regarding the lad or, rather, someone was doing a good job of protecting Crokus-that much the pattern showed,him. He experienced a nagging suspicion that the «someone» wasn't himself, or any of his agents. And he'd just have to trust in its integrity.

Circle Breaker had come through yet again, and Kruppe was still confident that Turban Orr's hunt for the man would prove fruitless. The Eel knew how to protect his own. In fact, Circle Breaker was due for retirement-for the man's own safety-and Kruppe intended to deliver the good news this very night, at Lady Sinital's f?te. Circle Breaker deserved no less after all these years.

The pattern also told him something he already knew: his cover was blown. The spell he had cast on Murillio wouldn't last much longer, nor was it required to. Kruppe had wanted his freedom unimpeded this day.

After that, well, things would fall as they would fall-and the same applied for his meeting with Baruk.

If anything gave Kruppe pause, it was the pattern's abrupt ending.

Beyond tonight, the future was blank. Clearly, a crux had been reached, and it would turn, he knew, at Lady Sinital's f?te.

Kruppe now entered the Higher Estates District, with a generous nod at the lone guard stationed near the ramp. The man scowled, but otherwise made no comment. The F?te was set to begin in thirty minutes, and Kruppe planned on being one of the first to arrive. His mouth watered at the thought of all those pastries, fresh and dripping with warm, sweet liquids. He removed his mask from inside his coat and smiled at it.

Perhaps, among all those attending, High Alchemist Baruk alone would appreciate the irony of this moulded visage. Ah, well, he sighed. One is more than enough, given who that one is. After all, is Kruppe greedy?

His stomach rumbled in answer.

Crokus strained his eyes towards the darkening east. Something like lightning flashed every now and then beyond the hills, each one closer than the last. But the thunder's rumble, which had begun early that afternoon and still continued, sounded somehow wrong, its timbre unlike the normal bass that rolled through the earth. It seemed almost brittle. The clouds that had appeared over the hill earlier had been an eerie ochre colour, sickly, and those clouds now approached the city.

«When are we leaving?» Apsalar asked, leaning on the wall beside him.

Crokus shook himself. «Now. It's dark enough.»

«Crokus? What will you do if Challice D'Arle betrays you a second time?»

He could barely see her face in the gloom. Had she meant that to cut?

It was hard to tell from her voice. «She won't,» he said, telling himself that he believed it. «Trust me,» and he turned towards the stairwell.

«I do,» she said simply.

Crokus winced. Why did she make things seem so easy for her?

Hood's Breath, he wouldn't trust him. Of course, he didn't know Challice very well. They'd only had that one, confusing conversation.

What if she called the guards? Well, he'd make sure Apsalar got away safely. He paused and grasped her arm. «Listen,» his own voice sounded unduly harsh, but he pushed on, «if something goes wrong, go to the Phoenix Inn. Right? Find Meese, Irilta, or my friends Kruppe and Murillio. Tell them what happened.»

«All right, Crokus.»

«Good.» He released her arm. «Wish we had a lantern,» he said, as he stepped into the darkness, one hand reaching before him.

«Why?» Apsalar asked, slipping past him. She took his hand and led him down. «I can see. Don't let go of my hand.»

That might be a hard thing to do even if he'd desired it, he realized.

Still, there were a lot of rough calluses on that small hand. He let them remind him of what this woman was capable of doing, though the effort embarrassed him in some vague way.

Eyes-wide, yet seeing nothing, Crokus allowed himself to be guided

captain of Sinital's House Guard viewed Whiskeyjack and his men with obvious distaste. «I thought you were all Barghast.» He stepped up to Trotts and jabbed a finger into the warrior's massive chest. «You led me to believe you were all like you, Niganga.»

A low, menacing growl emerged from Trotts, and the captain stepped back, one hand reaching for his short sword.

«Captain,» Whiskeyjack said, «if we were all Barghast-»

The man's narrow face swung to him with a scowl.

«— you'd never be able to afford us,» the sergeant finished with a tight smile. He glanced at Trotts. Niganga? Hood's Breath! «Niganga is my second-in-command, Captain. Now, how would you like us positioned.»

«Just beyond the fountain,» he said. «Your backs will be to the garden, which has, ah, run wild of late. We don't want any guests getting lost in there, so you gently steer them back. Understood? And when I say gently I mean it. You're to salute anyone who talks to you, and if there's an argument direct them to me, Captain Stillis. I'll be making the rounds, but any one of the house guard can find me.»

Whiskeyjack nodded. «Understood, sir.» He turned to survey his squad.

Fiddler and Hedge stood behind Trotts, both looking eager. Past them Mallet and Quick Ben stood on the edge of the street, heads bent together in conversation. The sergeant frowned at them, noticing how his wizard winced with every boom of thunder to the east.

Captain Stillis marched off after giving them directions through the estate's rooms out to the terrace and garden beyond. Whiskeyjack waited for the man to leave his line of sight, then he strode to Quick Ben and Mallet. «What's wrong?» he asked.

Quick Ben looked frightened.

Mallet said, «That thunder and lightning, Sergeant? Well, it ain't no storm. Paran's story is looking real.»

«Meaning we have little time,» Whiskeyjack said. «Wonder why the Adjunct didn't show up-you think she's melting her boots getting away from here?»

Mallet shrugged.

«Don't you get it?» Quick Ben said shakily. He took a couple of deep breaths, then continued, «That creature out there is in a fight. We're talking major sorceries, only it's getting closer, which means that it's winning. And that means-»

«We're in trouble,» Whiskeyjack finished. «All right, we go as planned for now. Come on, we've been assigned right where we want to be. Quick Ben, you sure Kalam and Paran can find us?»

The wizard moaned. «Directions delivered, Sergeant.»

«Good. Let's move, then. Through the house and eyes forward.»

«He looks like he's going to sleep for days,» Kalam said, straightening beside Coll's bed and facing the captain. Paran rubbed his red-shot eyes. «She must have given them something,» he insisted wearily, «even if they didn't see it.»

Kalam wagged his head. «I've told you, sir, she didn't. Everyone was on the look-out for something like that. The squad's still clean. Now, we'd better get moving.»

Paran climbed to his feet with an effort. He was exhausted, and he knew he was just an added burden. «She'll turn up at this estate, then,» he insisted, strapping on his sword.

«Well,» Kalam said, as he walked to the door, «that's where you and she come in, right? She shows up and we take her out-just like you've wanted to do all along.»

«Right now,» Paran said, joining the assassin, «the shape I'm in will make my role in the fight a short one. Consider me the surprise factor, the one thing she won't be expecting, the one thing that'll stop her for a second.» He looked into the man's dark eyes. «Make that second count, Corporal.»

Kalam grinned. «I hear you, sir.»

They left Coll still snoring contentedly and went down to the bar's main floor. As they passed along the counter, Scurve looked at them warily.

Kalam released an exasperated curse and, in a surge of motion, reached out and grasped him by the shirt. He pulled the squealing innkeeper half-way across the counter until their faces were inches apart.

«I'm sick of waiting,» the assassin growled. «You get this message to this city's Master of the Assassins. I don't care how. just do it, and do it fast. Here's the message: the biggest contract offer of the Master's life will be waiting at the back wall of Lady Sinital's estate. Tonight. If the Guild Master's worthy of that name then maybe-just maybe-it's not too big for the Guild to handle. Deliver that message, even if you have to shout it from the rooftops, or I'm coming back here with killing in mind.»

Paran stared at his corporal, too tired to be amazed. «We're wasting time,» he drawled.

Kalam tightened his grip and glared into Scurve's eyes. «We'd better not be,» he growled. He released the man by gently lowering him on to the counter-top. Then he tossed a handful of silver coins beside Scurve.

«For your troubles,» he said.

Paran gestured and the assassin nodded. They left the Phoenix Inn.

«Still following orders, Corporal?»

Kalam grunted. «We were instructed to make the offer in the name of the Empress, Captain. If the contract's accepted and the assassinations are done, then Laseen will have to pay up, whether we've been outlawed or not.»

«A gutted city for Dujek and his army to occupy, with the Empress paying for it. She'll choke on that, Kalam.»

He grinned. «That's her problem, not mine.»

In the street, the Greyfaces moved through the noisy crowd like silent spectres, lighting the gas-lamps with long-poled sparkers. Some people, brazen with drink, hugged the figures and blessed them. The Greyfaces, hooded and anonymous, simply bowed in reply and continued on their way once freed.

Kalam stared at them, his brows knitting.

«Something the matter, Corporal?» Paran asked.

«Just something nagging me. Can't pin it down. Only, it's got to do with those Greyfaces.»

The captain shrugged. «They keep the lanterns lit. Shall we make our way, then?»

Kalam sighed. «Might as well, sir.»

The black lacquered carriage, drawn by two dun stallions, moved slowly through the press. A dozen feet ahead marched a brace of Baruk's own house guards, driving a wedge down the street's centre, using their wrapped weapons when shouts and curses failed.

In the plush confines of the carriage the outside roar surged and ebbed like a distant tide, muted by the alchemist's sound-deadening spells. He sat with his chin lowered on his chest, his eyes-hidden in the shadow of his brow and half-shut-studying the Tiste And? seated across from him. Rake had said nothing since his return to the estate just minutes before their planned departure.

Baruk's head throbbed. Sorcery shook the hills to the east, sending waves of concussion that struck every mage within range like mailed fists. He well knew its source. The barrow dweller approached, its every step contested by Anomander Rake's Tiste And?. It seemed that Mammot's prediction had been too generous. They didn't have days, they had hours.

Yet, despite the warring Warrens, despite the fact that the Jaghut Tyrant's power was superior to Rake's mages'-that the barron dweller came on, relentless, unstoppable, a growing storm of Omtose Phellack sorcery-the Lord of Moon's Spawn sat at ease on the padded couch, his legs stretched out before him and gloved hands folded in his lap. The mask lying on the velvet at his side was exquisite, if ghastly. In better times Baruk might have been amused, appreciative of its workmanship, but right now when he regarded it his lone response was suspicion. A secret was locked in that mask, something that bespoke the man who would wear it. But the secret eluded Baruk.

Turban Orr adjusted his hawk mask and paused just before the wide steps leading to the estate's main doors. He heard another carriage arrive at the gates and turned. From the doorway at his back came the shuffle of footsteps.

Lady Sinital spoke behind him. «I would rather you'd permitted one of my servants to inform me of your arrival, Councilman. Allow me the privilege of escorting you into the main chamber.» She slipped her arm through his.

«A moment,» he muttered, eyes on the figure now emerging from the carriage. «It's the alchemist's carriage,» he said, «but that's hardly Baruk, now, is it?»

Lady Sinital looked. «Trake unleashed!» she gasped. «Who would that be?»

«Baruk's guest,» Orr said drily.

Her grip bit into his arm. «I'm aware of his privilege, Councilman. Tell me, have you seen this one before?»

The man shrugged. «He's masked. How could I tell?»

«How many men do you know, Turban, who are seven feet tall and wear two-handed swords strapped to their backs?» She squinted. «That white hair; do you think it's part of the mask?»

The councilman did not reply. He watched as Baruk emerged behind the stranger. The alchemist's mask was a conservative silver-inlaid halfshield that no more than covered his eyes. An obvious statement denying duplicity. Turban Orr grunted, knowing well that his suspicions about the alchemist's influence and power were accurate. His eyes returned to the stranger. His mask was that of a black dragon, lacquered with fine silver-traced highlights; somehow the dragon's expression seemed: sly.

«Well?» Lady Sinital demanded. «Are we going to linger out here all night? And where's your dear wife, anyway?»

«Ill,» he said distractedly. He smiled at her. «Shall we introduce ourselves to the alchemist's guest? And have I complimented you yet on your attire?»

«You haven't,» she said.

«A black panther suits you, Lady.»

«But of course it does,» she replied testily, as Baruk and his guest str down the paved walk towards them. She disengaged her arm and stepped forward. «Good evening, Alchemist Baruk. Welcome,» she added to the black-dragon-masked man. «An astonishing presentation. Have we met?»

«Good evening, Lady Sinital,» Baruk said, bowing. «Councilman Turban Orr. Permit me to introduce,» he hesitated, but the Tiste And? had been firm on this, «Lord Anomander Rake, a visitor to Darujhistan.»

The alchemist waited to see if the councilman would recognize the name.

Turban Orr bowed formally. «On behalf of the City Council, welcome, Lord Anomander Rake.»

Baruk sighed. Anomander Rake, a name known by poets and scholars, but not, it appeared, by councilmen.

Orr continued, «As a lord, I assume you hold title to land?» He almost stepped back as the dragon's visage swung to regard him. Deep blue eyes fixed on his.

«Land? Yes, Councilman, I hold title. However, my title is honorary, presented to me by my people.» Rake looked past Orr's shoulder to the room beyond the wide doorway. «It seems, Lady, that the evening is well under way.»

«Indeed.» She laughed. «Come, join in the festivities.»

Baruk breathed another relieved sigh.

Murillio had to admit that Kruppe's choice of mask suited him perfectly.

He found himself grinning behind his feather-decked peacock mask in spite of his trepidation. He stood near the opened doorway leading out to the patio and garden, a goblet of light wine in one hand, the other hitched in his belt.

Rallick leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed. His mask was that of a Catlin tiger, idealized to mimic the god Trake's image.

Murillio knew the assassin let the wall bear his weight out of exhaustion rather than from a lazy slouch. He wondered yet again if matters would fall to him. The assassin stiffened suddenly, eyes on the entrance across from them.

Murillio craned to see past the crowd. There, the hawk. He murmured, «That's Turban Orr all right. Who's he with?»

«Sinital,» Rallick growled. «And Baruk, and some monster of a man wearing a dragon's mask-and armed.»

«Baruk?» Murillio laughed nervously. «Let's hope he doesn't recognize us. It wouldn't take him a second to put everything together.»

«It doesn't matter,» Rallick said. «He won't stop us.»

«Maybe you're right.» Then Murillio almost dropped his glass. «Hood's Weary Feet!»

Rallick hissed between his teeth. «Dammit! Look at him! He's heading straight for them!»

Lady Sinital and Turban Orr excused themselves, leaving Baruk and Rake momentarily alone in the middle of the chamber. People moved around them, some nodding deferentially at Baruk but all keeping their distance. A crowd gathered around Sinital where she stood at the foot of the winding staircase, eager with questions regarding Anomander Rake.

A figure approached Baruk and his companion. Short, round, wearing a faded red waistcoat, both hands clutching pastries, the man wore a cherub's mask, its open red-lipped mouth smeared with cake icing and crumbs. His route to them met with one obstacle after another as he negotiated his way across the room, excusing himself at every turn and twist.

Rake noticed the newcomer, for he said, «Seems eager, doesn't he?»

Baruk chuckled. «He's worked for me,» he said. «And I've worked for him as well. Anomander Rake, behold the one they call the Eel. Darujhistan's master-spy.»

«Do you jest?»

«No.»

Kruppe arrived, his chest heaving. «Master Baruk!» he said breathlessly. «What a surprise to find you here.» The cherub face swung over and up to Rake. «The hair is an exquisite touch, sir. Exquisite. I am named Kruppe, sir. Kruppe the First.» He raised a pastry to his mouth and jammed it in.

«This is Lord Anomander Rake, Kruppe.»

Kruppe nodded vigorously, then swallowed audibly. «Of course! Why then, you must be quite used to such a lofty stance, sir. Kruppe envies those who can look down upon everyone else.»

«It is easy to fool oneself,» Rake answered, «into viewing those beneath one as small and insignificant. The risks of oversight, you might say.»

«Kruppe might well say, assuming the pun was intended. But who would disagree that the dragon's lot is ever beyond the ken of mere humankind? Kruppe can only guess at the thrill of flight, the wail of high winds, the rabbits scurrying below as one's shadow brushes their limited awareness.»

«My dear Kruppe,» Baruk sighed, «it is but a mask.»

«Such is the irony of life,» Kruppe proclaimed, raising one pastry-filled hand over his head, «that one learns to distrust the obvious, surrendering instead to insidious suspicion and confused conclusion. But, is Kruppe deceived? Can an eel swim? Hurrah, these seeming muddy waters are home to Kruppe, and his eyes are wide with wonder.» He bowed with a flourish, spattering bits of cake over Rake and Baruk, then marched off, still talking. «A survey of the kitchen is in order, Kruppe suspects:»

«An eel indeed,» Rake said, in an amused tone. «He is a lesson to us all, is he not?»

«Agreed,» Baruk muttered, shoulders slumping. «I need a drink. Let me get you one. Excuse me.»

Turban Orr stood with his back to the wall and surveyed the crowded room. He was finding it difficult to relax. The last week had been exhausting. He still awaited confirmation from the Assassins» Guild that Coll was dead. It wasn't like them to take so long to complete a contract, and sticking a knife into a drunk shouldn't have been too difficult.

His hunt for the spy in his organizations had reached a dead end, but he remained convinced that such a man-or woman-existed. Again and again, and especially since Lini's assassination, he'd found his moves in the Council blocked by countermoves, too unfocused for him to point a finger at any one person. But the proclamation was dead in the water.

He'd come to that conclusion this morning. And he'd acted. Even now his most trusted and capable messenger rode the trader's track, probably passing through the Gadrobi Hills and that thunderstorm at this very moment, on his way to Pale. To the Empire. Turban Orr knew the Malazans were on the way. No one in Darujhistan could stop them. And the Moon's lord had been defeated once, at Pale. Why would it be any different this time around? No, the time had come to ensure that his own position would survive the Empire's occupation. Or, better yet, an even higher rank to reward his vital support.

His eyes fell casually on a guard stationed to one side of the spiral staircase. The man looked familiar somehow-not his face, but the way he stood, the set of the shoulders. Was the man's usual station at Majesty Hall? No, the uniform was that of a regular, while Majesty Hall was the domain of the elites. Turban Orr's frown deepened behind the hawk mask. Then the guard adjusted his helmet strap, and Turban Orr gasped.

He leaned back against the wall, overcome by trembling. Despot's Barbican! All those nights, night after night-for years-that guard had witnessed his midnight meetings with his allies and agents. There stood his spy.

He straightened, closing one hand over the pommel of his duelling sword. He'd leave no room for questions, and damn Sinital's sensibilities-and damn this party. He wanted his vengeance to be swift and immediate. He'd let no one stop him. His eyes fixing on the unsuspecting guard, Turban Orr stepped forward.

He collided with a hard shoulder and staggered back. A large man in a tiger mask turned to him. Orr waited for an apology, but received only silence. He moved to step past the man.

The stranger's arm intercepted him. Turban Orr cursed as a gloved hand poured wine down his chest. «Idiot!» he snapped. «I am Councilman Turban Orr! Out of my way.»

«I know who you are,» the man said quietly.

Orr jabbed a finger into the man's chest. «Keep that mask on, so I'll know who to look for later.»

«I didn't even notice your mask,» the man said, his voice cold and flat. «Fooled by the nose, I suppose.»

The councilman's eyes narrowed. «Eager to die, are you?» he grated. «I will oblige you.» His hand twitched on his sword's pommel. «In a few minutes. Right now I have-»

«I wait on no man,» Rallick Nom said. «And certainly not for some thinlipped prancer pretending to manhood. If you've the belly for a duel, make it now or stop wasting time with all this talk.»

Shaking, Turban Orr took a step back and faced the man directly.

«What's your name?» he demanded hoarsely.

«You are not fit to hear it, Councilman.»

Turban Orr raised his hands and whirled to the crowd. «Hear me, guests! Unexpected entertainment for you all!» Conversation died and everyone faced the councilman. He continued, «A fool has challenged my honour, friends. And since when has Turban Orr permitted such an insult?»

«A duel!» someone cried excitedly. Voices rose.

Orr pointed at Rallick Nom. «This man, so bold as to wear Trake's face, will be dead shortly. Look upon him now, friends, as he looks upon you-and know that he is all but dead already.»

«Stop babbling,» Rallick drawled.

The councilman pulled the mask from his face, revealing a tight grin.

«If I could kill you a thousand times,» he said, «it would not be enough to satisfy me. I must settle with you but once.»

Rallick removed his mask and tossed it on to the carpeted stairs. He looked upon Turban Orr with flat, dark eyes. «Done breaking wind, Councilman?»

«Unmasked and still a stranger,» Orr said, scowling. «So be it. Find yourself a second.» A thought struck him, and he turned back to the crowd, searching it. Towards the back he saw the mask he sought, that of a wolf. His choosing of a second could well have political benefits, assuming the man accepted. And, in this crowd, he'd be a fool to deny him.

«For myself,» he said loudly, «I would be honoured if Councilman Estraysian D'Arle act as my second.»

The wolf started. Beside him stood two women, one no more than a girl. D'Arle's wife was dressed as a veiled woman of Callows, while the girl had selected-outrageously-the minimal garb of a Barghast warmaiden. Both wife and daughter spoke to Estraysian. He stepped forward. «The honour is mine,» he rumbled, completing the ritual acceptance.

Turban Orr felt a surge of triumph. To have his most powerful enemy in the Council at his side for this duel would send a message mixed enough to panic half the Council members present. Pleased at his coup, he faced his nameless opponent again. «And your second?»

Silence fell over the room.

«I haven't much time,» Lady Sinital said in a low voice. «After all, as the hostess for this f?te. .»

«It's your duty,» murmured the man before her, «to satisfy your guests.»

He reached forth and brushed the hair from her forehead. «Which is something I'm certain you can do, and do well.»

She smiled and walked to the door. She locked its latch, then spun to face the man again. «Perhaps half an hour,» she said.

The man strode to the bed and tossed down his leather gloves. «I'm confident,» he said,» that those thirty minutes will be satisfying indeed, each more than the last.»

Lady Sinital joined him beside the bed. «I suppose,» she whispered, as she slipped her arms around the man's neck and drew his face down to her lips, «that you've no choice now but to tell the Widow Lini the sad news.» She touched her lips to his, then ran her tongue along the line of his jaw.

«Mmm? What sad news is that?»

«Oh, that you've found yourself a more worthy lover, of course.» Her tongue reached into his ear. Abruptly she pulled back and met his eyes searchingly. «Do you hear that?» she asked.

He brought his arms around her and drew her closer. «Hear what?»

«That's just it,» she said. «It's suddenly quiet downstairs. I'd better-»

«They're in the garden, no doubt,» the man said reassuringly. «The minutes are passing, Lady.»

She hesitated, then made the mistake of letting him press his body against hers. Lady Simtal's eyes widened in near-alarm. Her breathing changed. «So,» she gasped, «what are we doing still dressed?»

«Good question,» Murillio growled, pulling both of them on to the bed.

In the silence following Turban Orr's question, Baruk found himself preparing to step forward. Knowing well what that would reveal, he felt compelled nevertheless. Rallick Nom was here to right a dreadful wrong.

More, the man was a friend, closer to the alchemist than Kruppe or Murillio-and, in spite of his profession, a man of integrity. And Turban Orr was Lady Sinital's last link to real power. If Rallick killed the man, she'd fall.

Coll's return to the Council was something Baruk and his fellow Vorrud mages greatly desired. And Turban Orr's death would be a relief.

More was riding on this duel than Rallick imagined. The alchemist adjusted his robe and drew a deep breath.

A large hand closed on his upper arm and, before Baruk could react, Lord Anomander Rake stepped forward. «I offer my services as second,» he said loudly. He met Rallick's eyes.

The assassin betrayed nothing, not once looking at Baruk. He answered Rake's offer with a nod.

«Perhaps,» Turban Orr sneered, «the two strangers know each other.»

«We've never met,» Rake said. «However, I find myself instinctively sharing his distaste for your endless talk, Councilman. Thus I seek to avoid a Council debate on who will be this man's second. Shall we proceed?»

Turban Orr led the way out to the terrace, Estraysian D'Arle behind him. As Baruk turned to follow he felt a familiar contact of energies at his side. He swung his head and recoiled. «Good gods, Mammot! Where did you get that hideous mask?»

The old man's eyes held his briefly then shied away. «An accurate rendition of Jaghut features, I believe,» he said softly. «Though I think the tusks are a little short.»

Baruk shook himself. «Have you managed to find your nephew yet?»

«No,» Mammot replied. «I am deeply worried by that.»

«Well,» the alchemist grunted as they walked outside, «let's hope that Oponn's luck holds for the lad.»

«Of course,» Mammot murmured.

Whiskeyjack's eyes widened as a crowd of excited guests poured out from the main chamber and gathered on the terrace.

Fiddler scurried to his side. «It's a duel, Sergeant. The guy with the wine stain on his shirt is one of them, a councilman named Orr. Nobody knows who the other man is. He's over there with that big man in the» The sergeant had been leaning, arms crossed, against one of the marble pillars encircling the fountain, but at seeing the tall dragon-masked figure he came near to toppling into the fountain behind him.

«Hood's Balls!» he cursed. «Recognize that Ionia silver hair, Fid?»

The saboteur frowned.

«Moon's Spawn,» Whiskeyjack breathed. «That's the mage, the Lord who stood on that portal and battled Tayschrenn.» He reeled off an impressive list of curses, then added, «And he's not human.»

Fiddler groaned. «Tiste And?. The bastard's found us. We've had it.»

«Shut up.» Whiskeyjack was recovering from his shock. «Line everybody up the way that Captain Stillis wanted us. Backs to the woods and hands on weapons. Move!»

Fiddler scrambled. The sergeant watched the saboteur round up his men. Where the hell were Kalam and Paran anyway? He caught Quick Ben's eye and gestured the mage over.

«Fid explained it,» Quick Ben said, leaning close. «I may not be much use, Sergeant. That barrow-dweller's unleashing waves of nasty stuff. My head feels ready to explode.» He grinned wanly. «And look around. You can pick out all the mages by the sick looks on their faces. If we all accessed our Warrens, we'd be fine.»

«Then why don't you?»

The wizard grimaced. «That Jaghut would fix on us as if we were a beacon of fire. And he'd take the weaker ones-even from this distance, he'd take them. And then there'd be hell to pay.»

Whiskeyjack watched the guests create a space on the terrace, lining up on either side. «Check with Hedge and Fiddler,» he ordered, eyes lingering on the Tiste And?. «Make sure they've got something handy, in case it all comes apart. This estate's got to burn then, hot and long. We'll need the diversion to set off the intersection mines. Give me the nod telling me they're up to it.»

«Right.» Quick Ben moved off.

Whiskeyjack grunted in surprise as a young man stepped round him, dressed as a thief, complete with face mask.

«Excuse me,» the man muttered, as he walked into the crowd.

The sergeant stared after him, then glanced back at the garden. How the hell had that lad got past them in the first place? He could've sworn they'd sealed off the woods. He loosened his sword surreptitiously in its sheath.

Crokus had no idea what kind of costume Challice D'Arle would be wearing, and he was resigned to a long hunt. Held left Apsalar at the u&.iA back wall, and now felt guilty. Still, she'd seemed to take it well though in a way that made him feel even worse. Why did she have to kv&(~e about things a thought about the crowd's strange formation, looking as he was for a head somewhere at chest level to everyone else. As it turned out, that proved unnecessary, for Challice D'Arle's costume was no disguise.

Crokus found himself between two burly house guards. Across from him, twenty feet away with no one to block his view, stood Challice and an older woman Crokus took to be her mother. Their attention was held unerringly on a tall, severe-looking man standing at one end of the cleared space and speaking with another man, who was strapping on a duelling glove. It slowly dawned on the thief that a duel was but moments away.

Squeezing between the two guards, Crokus craned his neck to find the other duellist. At first he thought him the giant with the dragon mask and two-handed sword. Then his gaze found the man. Rallick Nom. His eyes snapped back to the first duellist. Familiar. He nudged the guard on his left.

«Is that Councilman Turban Orr?»

«It is, sir,» the guard replied, an odd tightness in his tone.

Crokus glanced up to see the man's face wet with sweat, trickling down from under his peaked helmet. Strange. «So, where's Lady Sinital?» he asked casually.

«Nowhere in sight,» the guard answered, with obvious relief. «Otherwise she'd stop this.»

Crokus nodded at that. «Well,» he said, «Rallick will win.»

The guard's gaze was on him, the eyes hard and piercing. «You know the man?»

«Well-»

Someone tapped his back and he turned to find a cherub's face smiling mindlessly at him. «Why, Crokus lad! What an inventive costume you're wearing!»

«Kruppe?»

«Well guessed!» Kruppe replied. The painted wooden face swung to the guard. «Oh, kind sir, I have a written message for you.» Kruppe placed a scroll into the man's hand. «Compliments of a long-time secret admirer.»

Crokus grinned. These guards had all the luck when it came to noble ladies.

Circle Breaker accepted the scroll and slid from it the silk tie in. More than once he had sensed Turban Orr's eyes on him. First in the central chamber, when it looked as if the Councilman might accost him directly, and now, while others argued over who should referee the duel.

Circle Breaker prayed Rallick would kill Turban Orr. He felt his own fear racing through his body, and it was with trembling hands that he read the Eel's message.

The time has come for Circle Breaker to retire from active duty. The circle is mended, loyal friend. Though you have never seen the Eel, you have been his most trusted hand, and you have earned your rest.

Think not that the Eel simply discards you now. Such is not the Eel's way. The sigil at the bottom of this parchment will provide you passage to the city of Dhavran, where loyal servants of the Eel have prepared your arrival by purchasing an estate and a legitimate title on your behalf. You enter a different world soon, with its own games.

Trust your new servants, friend, in this and all other concerns.

Proceed, this very night, to the Dhavran trader's pier in Lakefront.

You seek the river longboat named Enskalader. Show the sigil to any crewman aboard-all are servants of the Eel. The time has come, Circle Breaker. The circle is mended. Fare you well.

Baruk threw up his hands in exasperation. «Enough of this!» he bellowed.

«I will referee this duel, and accept all responsibility. Judgement of victory is mine. Accepted by both parties?»

Turban Orr nodded. Even better than Estraysian being his second. Baruk's proclaiming him victor in the duel would be a coup in its own right. «I accept.»

«As do I,» Rallick said, his short cloak drawn about his body.

A sudden wind thrashed the treetops in the garden, sweeping down from the east. Thunder boomed from this side of the hills. A number of onlookers seemed to flinch. Turban Orr grinned, stepping into the cleared area. Leaves skirled past, clattering like tiny bones. «Before it rains,» he said.

His allies in the crowd laughed at this. «Of course,» Orr continued, «it might prove more entertaining to draw things out. A wound here, a wound there. Shall I cut him to pieces slowly?» He feigned dismay at the chorus of eager assent. «Too eager for blood, friends! Must the ladies dance on slick flagstones once darkness falls? We must consider our host:» And where was Sinital? His imagination conjured an image in answer and he frowned. «No indeed,» he said coldly, «it shall be quick.»

The councilman unsheathed his sword and fastened his glove's leather straps to the ornate grip behind the bell guard. He scanned the faces of his audience, even now seeking some betrayal of expression-he had friends who were enemies, enemies who would be friends, the game would continue beyond this moment, but it could prove a telling moment. He would recall every face later, and study it at his leisure.

Turban Orr assumed his stance. His opponent stood ten feet away, both hands hidden beneath his cloak. He looked at ease, almost bore «What's this?» Orr demanded. «Where is your weapon?»

«I'm ready,» Rallick replied.

Baruk placed himself equidistant between the two duellists, slightly to one side. His face was pale, as if he had fallen ill. «Comments from seconds?» he asked faintly.

Rake made no reply.

Estraysian D'Arle cleared his throat. «I hereby make it known that I oppose this duel as facile and trite.» He stared at Turban Orr. «I find the councilman's life irrelevant in the best of times. Should he die,» the man looked over to Rallick, «there will be no vengeance pact from the House of D'Arle. You, sir, are freed of that.»

Rallick bowed.

Turban Orr's smile tightened. The bastard would pay for that, he vowed. He lowered himself into a crouch, ready to launch an attack soon as the duel began.

Baruk said, «You have been heard, Estraysian D'Arle.» The alchemist raised a handkerchief before him, then released it.

Turban Orr jumped forward and lunged in a single, fluid motion, fast he'd fully extended his weapon before the handkerchief struck the paving stones. He saw his opponent's left hand dart under his blade, then twist up and outward, a short, curved knife flashing in its grip. The pa was a blur, yet Orr caught it and deftly disengaged, driving his point I and towards the man's mid-section. He had no time even to notice the second knife, as Rallick turned his body sideways, the blade in his right hand guiding Turban Orr's sword past him. The assassin stepped in th his left hand moving in a high swing that buried its blade in the councilman's neck. Rallick followed this by driving his other knife into Orr's chest.

The councilman staggered to one side, his sword clanging on stones as he clutched at the gushing wound in his neck. The motion was reflex, for he was already dead from the wound in his heart.

He toppled.

Rallick stepped back, weapons once again hidden beneath his cloak. «A thousand other deaths,» he whispered, so low that only Baruk and Rake heard him, «would not have satisfied me. But I'll settle for this one.» Baruk stepped close and made to speak, but then, at a gesture from Rake, he turned to see Estraysian D'Arle approaching.

The councilman's heavy eyes held Rallick. «I might suspect,» he said «given your style, that we have witnessed an assassination. Of course, even the Guild of Assassins is brash enough to commit public murder. Therefore I've no choice but to keep such suspicions to myself. And leave it at that. Good evening, gentlemen.» He whirled and strode away.

«I think,» Rake said, his masked face swinging to the assassin, «that that was a rather uneven match.»

A rush of people closed in around Turban Orr's body. Voices shouted in dismay.

Baruk studied the cool satisfaction on Rallick's face. «It's done, Rallick. Go home.»

A large, rounded woman in a bright green, gold-trimmed robe joined them. Unmasked, she smiled broadly at Baruk. «Greetings,» she said. «Interesting times, yes?» A personal servant stood at her side, bearing a padded tray on which squatted a water-pipe.

Rallick stepped back with a slight bow, then left.

Baruk sighed. «Greetings, Derudan. Permit me to introduce Lord Anomander Rake. Lord, the witch Derudan.»

«Forgive the mask,» Rake said to her. «It is best that it remain on, however.»

Smoke streamed down from Derudan's nose. «My compatriots share my growing unease, yes? We feel the approaching storm, and while Baruk continues to reassure us, still the misgivings, yes?»

«Should it prove necessary,» Rake said, «I will attend to the matter personally. I do not believe, however, that our greatest threat is the one beyond the city's walls. A suspicion, Witch, no more.»

«I think,» Baruk said tentatively, «that we would like to hear these suspicions of yours, Rake.»

The Tiste And? hesitated, then shook his head. «Unwise. The matter is presently too sensitive to be broached. I shall remain here for now, however.»

Derudan waved dismissively at Baruk's angry growl. «True, the T'orrud Cabal is unused to feeling helpless, yes? True also, dangers abound, and any might prove a feint, a diversion, yes? Cunning is the Empress. For myself, I affirm the trust between us, Lord.» She smiled at Baruk. «We must speak, you and I, Alchemist,» she said, linking arms with him.

Rake bowed to the woman. «A pleasure meeting you, Witch.» He watched the witch and the alchemist walk away, the servant scurrying at Derudan's heel.

Kruppe intercepted a servant burdened with delicious-looking savouries.Taking two handfuls at random, he turned back to resume his conversation with Crokus. He stopped. The lad was nowhere in sight.

The crowd milled about on the terrace, some upset although the majority appeared simply confused. Where was Lady Sinital? they asked.

Some, grinning, changed the question to: Who's she with? Already a new wave of anticipation rose among the nobles. They circled like vultures, waiting for their faltering hostess.

Smiling beatifically behind the cherub mask, Kruppe raised his eyes slowly to the balcony overlooking the patio, in time to see a figure appear as a dark, feminine silhouette behind the shutters. He licked sticky sugar from his fingers, smacking his lips. «There are times, Kruppe murmurs, when celibacy born of sad deprivation becomes a boon, nay, a source of great relief. Dear Murillio, prepare for a storm.»

Sinital pushed apart two slats of the shutters and looked down. «You were right,» she said. «They have indeed retired to the terrace. Odd, with that storm coming. I should get dressed.» She returned to the bed and began to collect her clothing, which lay scattered all around it. «And what about you, Murillio?» she asked. «Don't you think your companion below is wondering where you are, dear lover?»

Murillio swung his legs over the bedside and pulled on his tights. «I think not,» he said.

Sinital shot him a curious look. «Who did you come with?»

«Just a friend,» he answered, buttoning his shirt. «I doubt you'd recognize the name.»

At that moment the door's lock snapped and the door itself slammed inward.

Dressed only in her underclothes, Sinital loosed a startled cry. Her eyes flashed at the tall, cloaked man standing in the doorway. «How dare you enter my bedroom? Leave at once, or I'll call-»

«Both guards patrolling this hallway have departed, Lady,» Rallick Nom said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. The assassin glanced at Murillio. «Get dressed,» he snapped.

«Departed?» Sinital moved to place the bed between herself and Rallick.

«Their loyalty has been purchased,» the assassin said. «The lesson shouldn't be lost on you.»

«I need only scream and others will come.»

«But you haven't,» Rallick grinned, «because you're curious.»

«You don't dare harm me,» Sinital said, straightening. «Turban Orr hunt you down.» The assassin took another step forward. «I'm here only to talk, Lady Sinital,» he said. «You won't be harmed, no matter what you deserve.»

«Deserve? I've done nothing-I don't even knowyou.»

«Neither did Councilman Lini,» Rallick said quietly. «And tonight the same could be said for Turban Orr. Both men paid for their ignorance, alas. Fortunate that you missed the duel, Lady. It was unpleasant, but necessary.» His eyes hardened on the pale woman. «Allow me to explain.

Turban Orr's offer of contract to the Assassins» Guild is now officially cancelled. Coll lives, and now his return to this house is assured. You're done with, Lady Sinital. Turban Orr is dead.»

He turned and walked from the room, closing the door behind him.

Murillio rose slowly. He looked into Sinital's eyes, seeing there a growing terror. Undermined by the stripping away of her links to power, her once secure defences collapsed. He watched as she seemed physically to contract, her shoulders drawing inward, her hands clasped at her stomach, knees bending.Then he could look no longer. The Lady Sinital was gone, and he dared not study too closely the creature in her place.

He unsheathed his ornamental dagger and tossed it on the bed.

Without another word or gesture, he left the room, knowing with certainty that he would have been the last man to see her alive.

Out in the hallway he paused. «Mowri,» he said softly. «I'm not cut out for this.» Planning to reach this point was one thing; having now reached it was another. He hadn't considered how he'd feel. Justice got in the way of that, a white fire he'd had no reason to look behind, or push aside.

Justice had seduced him and he wondered what he had just lost, he wondered at the death he felt spreading within him. The regret following in that death's wake, so unanswerable it was, threatened to overwhelm him. «Mowri,» he whispered a second time, as close to praying as he'd ever been, «I think I'm now lost. Am I lost?»

Crokus edged round a marble pillar, his eyes on the rather short Barghast warmaiden sitting on the fountain's rim. Damn those guards at the wood's edge, anyway. He was a thief, wasn't he? Besides, they all looked pretty distracted.

He waited for his opportunity, and when it came he darted for the shadows between the first line of trees. No shout of alarm or call to halt sounded behind him. Slipping into the darkness, Crokus turned and crouched. Yes, she still sat there, facing in his direction.

He drew a deep breath, then stood straight, a pebble in one hand.

Eyeing the guards, he waited. Half a minute later he found his chance.

He stepped forward and flung the pebble into the fountain.

Challice D'Arle jumped, then looked round as she wiped droplets of water from her painted face.

His heart sank as her gaze passed over him, then her head whipped back.

Crokus gestured desperately. This was it, this was when he'd find out where she stood as far as he was concerned. He held his breath and gestured again.

With a backward glance towards the patio, Challice rose and ran to him.

As she came close she squinted at him. «Gorlas? Is that you? I've been waiting all night!» Crokus froze. Then, without thinking, he lunged forward and clasped a hand over her mouth, his other arm encircling her waist. Challice squealed, trying to bite his palm, and struggled against him, but he dragged her into the darkness of the garden. Now what? he wondered.

Circle Breaker leaned against the marble pillar just inside the estate's main chamber. Behind him guests milled around Turban Orr's body, arguing loudly and voicing empty threats. The air hung heavy over the garden, smelling of blood.

He wiped at his eyes, trying to calm his heart. It's over. Queen of Dreams, I'm done. I can rest now. Finally rest. He straightened slowly, taking a deep breath, adjusted his sword belt and glanced around.

Captain Stillis was nowhere in sight, and the chamber was almost empty except for a knot of servants outside the kitchen entrance. Lady Sinital was still missing, and confusion now seeped into the void of her absence.

Circle Breaker looked one last time at the guests in the garden, then he made his way to the doors. As he passed a long table on which sat the remnants of pastries and puddings, he heard faint snoring. Another step forward brought him to the table's end and into view the small round man seated in a plush antique chair. The smeared cherub mask hid the man's face, but Circle Breaker could see the closed eyes, and the nasal drone that matched the rise and fall of his chest was loud and steady.

The guardsman hesitated. Then, shaking his head, he moved on.

Beyond the gates now within sight waited the streets of Darujhistan, and freedom. Now that he'd begun his first steps on that path, he would let nothing deter him.

I've done my part. just another nameless stranger who couldn't run from the face of tyranny. Dear Hood, take the man's shrivelled soul-his dreams are over, ended by an assassin's whim. As for my own soul, well, you shall have to wait a while longer.

He passed through the gates, welcoming at last the smile that came unbidden to his mouth.