Gardens of the Moon

CHAPTER SIX

The splayed tip of her right wing brushed the scarred black rock as Crone climbed the whistling updraughts of Moon's Spawn. From the pocked caves and starlit ledges her restless brothers and sisters called out to her as she passed. «Do we fly?» they asked. But Crone made no reply. Her glittering black eyes were fixed on heaven's vault. Her enormous wings beat a thundering refrain of taut, unrelenting power. She had no time for the nervous cackling of the younglings; no time for answering their simplistic needs with the wisdom her thousand years of life had earned her.

This night, Crone flew for her lord.

As she rose above the shattered peaks of the Moon's crest a high wind swept her wings, rasping dry and cold along her oily feathers. Around her, thin wisps of shredded smoke rode the currents of night air like lost spirits. Crone circled once, her sharp gaze catching the glimmer of the few remaining fires among the crags below, then she dipped a wing and sailed out on the wind's tide as it rolled northward to Lake Azur.

The featureless expanse of the Dwelling Plain was beneath her, the grass sweeping in grey waves unbroken by house or hill. Directly ahead lay the glittering jewelled cloak that was Darujhistan, casting into the sky a sapphire glow. As she neared the city her unnaturally acute vision detected, here and there among the estates crowding the upper tier, the aquamarine emanation of sorcery.

Crone cackled aloud. Magic was ambrosia to Great Ravens. They were drawn to it by the scent of blood and power, and within its aura their lifespans lengthened into centuries. Its musk had other effects as well. Crone cackled again. Her gaze fixed on one particular estate, around which glowed a profusion of protective sorcery. Her lord had imparted to her a thorough description of the magical signature she must find, and now she had found it. Crooking her wings, she sank gracefully towards the estate.

Inland from Gadrobi District's harbour the land rose in four tiers climbing eastward. Ramped cobblestone streets, worn to a polished mosaic, marked Gadrobi District's Trade Streets, five in all, which were the only routes through Marsh District and into the next tier, Lakefront District.

Beyond Lakefront's crooked aisles twelve wooden gates opened on to Daru District, and from Daru another twelve gates-these ones manned by the City Watch and barred by iron portcullis-connected the lower and upper cities.

On the fourth and highest tier brooded the estates of Darujhistan's nobility as well as its publicly known sorcerers. At the intersection of Old King's Walk and View Street rose a flat-topped hill on which sat Majesty Hall, where each day the Council gathered. A narrow park encircled the hill, with sand-strewn pathways winding among centuries-old acacias. At the park's entrance, near High Gallows Hill, stood a massive rough-hewn stone gate, the last-surviving remnant of the castle that once commanded Majesty Hill.

The days of kings had long since ended in Darujhistan. The gate, known as Despot's Barbican, stood stark and unadorned, its lattice of cracks a fading script of past tyranny.

In the shadow of the Barbican's single massive lintel stone stood two men. One, his shoulder against the pitted rock, wore a ringed hauberk and a boiled leather cap bearing the City Watch insignia. Scabbarded to his belt was a plain shortsword, its grip of wrapped leather worn smooth. A pike leaned against one shoulder. He was nearing the end of his midnight guard duty and patiently awaited the arrival of the man who would officially relieve him. The guard's eyes flicked on occasion to the second man, with whom he had shared this place many another night over the past year. The glances he cast at the well-dressed gentleman were surreptitious, empty of expression.

As with every other time Councilman Turban Orr came to the gate at this dead hour of night, the nobleman had scarcely deemed the guard worthy of notice; nor had he ever given an indication that he recognized the guard as being the same man each time.

Turban Orr seemed a man short on patience, forever pacing and fretting, pausing every now and then to adjust his jewelled burgundy cloak. The councilman's polished boots clicked as he paced, throwing a soft echo under the Barbican. From the shadow the guard's gaze caught Orr's gloved hand where it rested on the silver pommel of a duelling sword, noting the index finger tapping in time with the boot clicks.

At the early part of his watch, long before the arrival of the councilman, the guard would walk slowly around the Barbican, reaching out on occasion to touch the ancient, grim stonework. Six years» worth of night watch at this gate had bred a close relationship between the man and the rough-cut basalt: he knew every crack, every chisel scar; he knew where the fittings had weakened, where time and the elements had squeezed mortar from between the stones then gnawed it to dust. And he also knew that its apparent weaknesses were but a deception. The Barbican, and all it stood for, patiently waited still, a spectre of the past, hungry to be born yet again.

And that, the guard had long ago vowed, he would never let it do-if such things were within his power. Despot's Barbican provided the man with every reason he needed to be what he was: Circle Breaker, a spy.

Both he and the councilman awaited the arrival of the other; the one who never failed to appear. Turban Orr would growl his usual complaint, disgusted with tardiness; then he would grasp the other's arm and they would walk side by side beneath the Barbican's brooding lintel stone. And, with eyes long accustomed to darkness, the guard would mark the other's face, burning it indelibly in the superb memory hidden behind expressionless, unmemorable features.

By the time the two Council members returned from their walk, the guard would have been relieved and well on his way to delivering a message according to his master's instructions. If Circle Breaker's luck held, he might survive the civil war into which Darujhistan, he felt, was about to plunge-and never mind the Malazan nemesis. One nightmare at a time, he often told himself, particularly on nights like these, when Despot's Barbican seemed to breathe its promise of resurrection with mocking certainty.

«As this may be in your interest,» High Alchemist Baruk read aloud from the parchment note in his plump hands. Always the same opening line, hinting of disquieting knowledge. An hour earlier his servant Roald had delivered the note, which, like all the others that had come to him over the past year, had been found tucked into one of the ornamental murder holes in the estate's rear postern gate.

Recognizing the pattern, Baruk had immediately read the missive then dispatched his messengers out into the city. Such news demanded action, and he was one of the few secret powers within Darujhistan capable of dealing with it.

Now he sat in a plush chair in his study, musing. His deceptively sleepy gaze flicked down again to the words on the parchment. «Councilman Turban Orr walks in the garden with Councilman Feder. I remain known only as Circle Breaker, a servant of the Eel, whose interests continue to coincide with your own.» Once again Baruk felt temptation. With his talents it would be a small thing to discover the writer's identity-though not the Eel's, of course: that was an identity sought by many, all to no avail-but, as always, something held him back.

He shifted his bulk on the chair and sighed. «Very well, Circle Breaker, I'll continue to honour you, though clearly you know more of me than I of you, and fortunate it is indeed that your master's interests coincide with my own. Still.» He frowned, thinking about the Eel, about the man's-or woman's-undisclosed interests. He knew enough to recognize that too many forces had come into play-a gathering of Ascendant powers was a fell thing. To continue to step unseen in defence of the city was becoming increasingly difficult. So, the question came yet again: Was this Eel using him as well?

Oddly enough, he did not feel too concerned about this possibility. So much vital information had been passed into his hands already.

He folded the parchment carefully and muttered a simple cantrip. The note vanished with a small plop of displaced air, joining the others in a safe place.

Baruk closed his eyes. Behind him the broad window shutters rattled in a gust of wind, then settled again. A moment later there came a sharp rap against the smoky glass. Baruk sat upright, his eyes startled open. A second rap, louder than the first, brought him round with a swift alacrity surprising for one of his girth. On his feet, he faced the window.

Something crouched on the ledge, visible through the shutters only as a bulky black shape.

Baruk frowned. Impossible. Nothing could penetrate his magic barriers undetected. The alchemist gestured with one hand, and the shutters sprang open. Behind the glass waited a Great Raven. Its head snapped to view Baruk with one eye, then the other. It pushed boldly against the thin glass with its massive, ridged chest. The pane bulged, then shattered.

His Warren fully open, Baruk raised both hands, a savage spell on his lips.

«Don't waste your breath!» the Raven rasped, swelling its chest and ruffling its mangy feathers to rid itself of glass shards. It cocked its head.

«You've called your guards,» it observed. «No need, Wizard.» A single hop brought the enormous bird on to the floor. «I bring words you will value. Have you anything to eat?»

Baruk studied the creature. «I'm not in the habit of inviting Great Ravens into my home,» he said. «You are no disguised demon, either.»

«Of course not. I'm named Crone.» Her head bobbed mockingly. «At your pleasure, Lord.»

Baruk hesitated, considering. After a moment he sighed and said, «Very well. I've returned my guards to their posts. My servant Roald comes with the leavings of supper, if that's agreeable to you.»

«Excellent!» Crone waddled across the floor to settle on the rug before the fireplace. «There, Lord. Now, a calming crystal of wine, don't you think?»

«Who has sent you, Crone?» Baruk asked, walking over to the decanter on his desk. Normally he did not drink after sunset, for night was when he worked, but he had to acknowledge Crone's perceptiveness. A calming balm was exactly what he needed.

The Great Raven hesitated slightly before answering, «The Lord of Moon's Spawn.»

Baruk paused in the filling of his glass. «I see,» he said quietly, struggling to control his surging heart. He set the decanter down slowly and, with great concentration, raised the goblet to his lips. The liquid was cool on his tongue, and its passage down his throat indeed calmed him. «Well, then,» he said, turning, «what would your lord have of a peaceful alchemist?»

Crone's chipped beak opened in what Baruk realized was silent laughter. The bird fixed a single glittering eye on him. «Your answer rode the very breath of your words, Lord. Peace. My lord wishes to speak with you. He wishes to come here, this very night. Within the hour.»

«And you're to await my answer.»

«Only if you decide quickly, Lord. I have things to do, after all. I'm more than a simple message-bearer. Those who know wisdom when they hear it hold me dear. I am Crone, eldest of the Moon's Great Ravens, whose eyes have looked upon a thousand years of human folly. Hence my tattered coat and broken beak as evidence of your indiscriminate destruction. I am but a winged witness to your eternal madness.»

In quiet mockery Baruk said, «More than just a witness. It's well known how you and your kind feasted on the plain outside Pale's walls.»

«Yet we were not the first to feast on flesh and blood, Lord, lest you forget.»

Baruk turned away. «Far be it for me to defend my species,» he muttered, more to himself than to Crone, whose words had stung him. His eyes fell on the shards of glass littering the floor. He voiced a mending spell and watched as they reassembled. «I will speak with your lord, Crone.» He nodded as the glass pane rose from the floor and returned to the window-frame. «Tell me, will he as easily disdain my wards as you did?»

«My lord is possessed of honour and courtesy,» Crone replied ambiguously. «I shall call him, then?»

«Do so,» Baruk said, sipping his wine. «An avenue will be provided for his passage.»

There came a knock at the door.

«Yes?»

Roald stepped inside. «Someone is at the gate wishing to speak with you,» the white-haired servant said, setting down a plate heaped with roast pork.

Baruk glanced at Crone and raised an eyebrow.

The bird ruffled her feathers. «Your guest is mundane, a restless personage whose thoughts are thick with greed and treachery. A demon crouches on his shoulder, named Ambition.»

«His name, Roald?» Baruk asked.

The servant hesitated, his soft eyes flicked uneasily at the bird now ambling towards the food.

Baruk laughed. «My wise guest's counsel indicates she well knows the man's name. Speak on, Roald.»

«Councilman Turban Orr.»

«I would remain for this,» Crone said. «If you would seek my counsel.»

«Please do, and, yes, I would,» the alchemist replied.

«I am no more than a pet dog,» the Great Raven crooned slyly, anticipating his next question. «To the councilman's eyes, that is. My words a beast's whimper to his ears.» She speared a piece of meat and swallowed it quickly.

Baruk found himself beginning to like this mangy old witch of a bird.

«Bring the councilman to us, Roald.»

The servant departed.

Archaic torches lit an estate's high-walled garden with a flickering light that threw wavering shadows across the pavestones. As a nightwind swept in from the lake, rustling leaves, the shadows danced like imps. On the second floor of the building was a balcony overlooking the garden.

Behind the curtained window, two figures moved.

Rallick Nom lay prone on the garden wall in a niche of darkness beneath the estate's gabled cornice. He studied the feminine silhouette with the patience of a snake. It was the fifth night in a row that he had occupied his hidden vantage-point. The Lady Sinital's lovers numbered as many, but he had identified two in particular worthy of attention.

Both were city councilmen.

The glass door opened and a figure walked out on to the balcony.

Rallick smiled as he recognized Councilman Lim. The assassin shifted position slightly, slipping one gloved hand under the stock of his crossbow; reaching up with the other to swing back the oiled crank. His eyes on the man leaning against the balcony railing across from him, Rallick carefully inserted a quarrel. A glance down at the bolt's iron head reassured him.

The poison glittered wetly along the razor-sharp edges. Returning his attention to the balcony he saw that Lady Sinital had joined Lim.

No wonder there's no shortage of lovers for that one, Rallick thought, his eyes narrowing in study. Her black hair, now unpinned, flowed down sleek and shiny to the small of her back. She wore a gauze-thin nightdress and, with the lamps of the room behind her, her body's round curves were clearly visible.

As they spoke their voices carried to where Rallick lay hidden.

«Why the alchemist?» Lady Sinital was asking, evidently resuming a conversation begun inside. «A fat old man smelling of sulphur and brimstone. Hardly suggestive of political power. Not even a council member, is he?»

Lim laughed softly. «Your naivete is a charm, Lady, a charm.»

Sinital pulled back from the railing and crossed her arms. «Educate me, then.» Her words came sharp, tightly bridled.

Lim shrugged. «We have naught but suspicions, Lady. But it is the wise wolf that follows every spoor, no matter how slight. The alchemist would have people think as you do. A doddering old fool.» Lim paused, as if in thought, perhaps weighing how much he should reveal. «We have sources,» he continued cautiously, «among the magery. They inform us of one certain fact heavy with implications. A good many of the wizards in the city fear the alchemist, and they name him by a title-that alone suggests a secret cabal of some sort. A gathering of sorcerers, Lady, is a fell thing.»

Lady Sinital had returned to the councilman's side. Both now leaned on the railing studying the dark garden below. The woman was silent for a time, then she said, «He has Council ties?»

«If he has, the evidence is buried deep.» Lim flashed a grin. «And if he hasn't, then that might change-this very night.»

Politics, Rallick snarled silently. And power. The bitch spreads her legs to the Council, offering a vice few can ignore. Rallick's hands twitched.

He would kill this night. Not a contract: the Guild had no part in this.

The vendetta was personal. She was gathering power around her, insulating herself, and Rallick thought he understood why. The ghosts of betrayal would not leave her alone.

Patience, he reminded himself, as he took aim. For the last two years the life of Lady Sinital had been one of indolence, the riches she had stolen had served to whet her every greed, and the prestige as sole owner of the estate had done much to grease the hinges of her bedroom door.

The crime she'd committed had not been against Rallick but, unlike her victim, Rallick had no pride to halt vengeance.

Patience, Rallick repeated, his lips moving to the word as he sighted down the crossbow's length. A quality defined by its reward, and that reward was but moments away.

«A fine looking hound,» Councilman Turban Orr said, as he handed Roald his cloak.

In the room Baruk was the only one capable of discerning the aura of illusion surrounding the black hunting dog lying curled on the rug before the fireplace. The alchemist smiled and gestured to a chair. «Please be seated, Councilman.»

«I apologize for disturbing you so late at night,» Orr said, as he lowered himself into the plush chair. Baruk sat down opposite him, Crone between them. «It's said,» Orr continued, «that alchemy flowers best in deep darkness.»

«Hence you gambled on my being awake,» Baruk said. «A well-placed wager, Councilman. Now, what would you have of me?»

Orr reached down to pat Crone's head.

Baruk looked away to keep himself from laughing.

«The Council votes in two days,» Orr said. «With a proclamation of neutrality such as we seek, war with the Malazan Empire will be averted-so we believe, but there are those in the Council who do not. Pride has made them belligerent, unreasonable.»

«As it does us all,» murmured Baruk.

Orr leaned forward. «The support of Darujhistan's sorcerers would do much to favour our cause,» he said.

«Careful,» Crone rumbled. «This man now hunts in earnest.»

Orr glanced down at the dog.

«A bad leg,» Baruk said. «Pay it no mind.» The alchemist leaned back in his chair and plucked at a loose thread on his robe. «I admit to some confusion, Councilman. You appear to be assuming some things I cannot countenance.» Baruk spread his hands and met Orr's eyes. «Darujhistan's sorcerers, for one. You could travel the Ten Worlds and not find a more spiteful rabid collection of humanity. I don't suggest that they are all like this-there are those whose only interest, indeed, obsession, lies in the pursuit of their craft. Their noses have been buried in books so long they could not even tell you what century this is. The others find bickering their only true pleasure in life.»

A smile had come to Orr's thin lips as Baruk spoke. «But,» he said with a cunning gleam in his dark eyes, «there is one thing they all acknowledge.»

«Oh? What is that Councilman?»

«Power. We're all aware of your eminence among the city's mages, Baruk. Your word alone would bring others.»

«I'm flattered that you would think so,» Baruk replied. «Unfortunately, therein lies your second erroneous assumption. Even if I had such influence as you suggest,» Crone snorted and Baruk flicked a savage glare at her, then continued, «which I do not, for what possible reason would I support such a wilfully ignorant position as yours? A proclamation of neutrality? Might as well whistle against the wind, Councilman. What purpose would it serve?»

Orr's smile had tightened. «Surely, Lord,» he purred, «you have no wish to share the same fate as the wizards of Pale?»

Baruk frowned. «What do you mean?»

«Assassinated by an Empire Claw. Moon's Dawn was entirely on its own against the Emnire.»

«Your information contradicts mine,» Baruk said stiffly, then cursed himself.

«Lean not too heavily on this one,» Crone said smugly. «You are both wrong.»

Orr's eyebrows had risen at Baruk's words. «Indeed? Perhaps it might profit us both to share our information?»

«Unlikely,» Baruk said. «Throwing the threat of the Empire at me implies what? That if the proclamation is voted down, the city's sorcerers will all die at the Empire's hand. But if it wins, you're free to justify opening the gates to the Malazans in peaceful co-existence, and in such a scenario the city's magery lives on.

«Astute, Lord,» Crone said.

Baruk studied the anger now visible beneath Orr's expression.

«Neutrality? How you've managed to twist that word. Your proclamation serves the first step towards total annexation, Councilman. Fortunate for you that I cast no weight, no vote, no influence.» Baruk rose «Roald will see you out.»

Turban Orr also rose. «You've made a grave error,» he said.

«The proclamation's wording is not yet complete. It seems we would do well to remove any consideration regarding Darujhistan's magery.»

«Too bold,» Crone observed. «Prod him and see what more comes forth.»

Baruk strode towards the window. «One may only hope,» he said drily over a shoulder,» that your vote fails to win the day.»

Orr's reply was hot and rushed. «By my count we've reached a majority this very night, Alchemist. You could have provided the honey on the cream. Alas,» he sneered, «we'll win by only one vote. But that will suffice.»

Baruk turned to face Orr as Roald quietly entered the room, bearing the councilman's cloak.

Crone stretched out on the rug. «On this night of all nights,» she said, in mock dismay, «to tempt myriad fates with such words.» The Great Raven cocked her head. Faintly, as from a great distance, she thought she could hear the spinning of a coin.

There was a tremble of power coming from somewhere within the city, and Crone shivered.

Rallick Nom waited. No more indolence for the Lady Sinital. The end of such luxuries came this night. The two figures moved away from the railing and faced the glass door. Rallick's finger tightened on the trigger.

He froze. A whirring, spinning sound filled his head, whispering words that left him bathed in sudden sweat. All at once everything shifted, turned over in his mind. His plan for quick vengeance tumbled into disarray, and from the ruins arose something far more: elaborate.

All this had come between breaths. Rallick's gaze cleared. Lady Sinital and Councilman Lim stood at the door. The woman reached out to slide the panel to one side. Rallick swerved his crossbow an inch to the left, then squeezed the trigger. The blackened iron rib of the bow bucked with the release of tension. The quarrel sped outward, so fast as to be invisible until it hit home.

A figure on the balcony spun with the quarrel's impact, arms thrown out as it stumbled. The glass door shattered as the figure fell through it.

Lady Sinital screamed in horror.

Rallick waited no longer. Rolling on to his back he reached up and slid the crossbow into the narrow ledge between the cornice and the roof.

Then he slipped down the outside of the wall, hung with his hands briefly as shouts of alarm filled the estate. A moment later he dropped, spinning as he fell, and landed cat-like in the alley.

The assassin straightened, adjusted his cloak, then calmly walked into the side-street, away from the estate. No more indolence for the Lady Sinital. But no quick demise, either. A very powerful, very well-respected member of the City Council had just been assassinated on her balcony.

Lim's wife-now widow-would certainly have something to say about this. The first phase, Rallick told himself as he strode through Osserc's Gate and descended the wide ramp leading down into the Daru District, just the first phase, an opening gambit, a hint to Lady Sinital that a hunt has begun, with the eminent mistress herself as the quarry. It won't be easy: the woman's no slouch in the intrigue game.

«There'll be more blood,» he whispered aloud, as he turned a corner and approached the poorly lit entrance to the Phoenix Inn. «But in the end she'll fall, and with that fall an old friend will rise.» As he neared the inn a figure stepped from the shadows of an adjacent alleyway. Raffick stopped. The figure gestured, then stepped back into the darkness.

Rallick followed. In the alley he waited for his eyes to adjust.

The man in front of him sighed. «Your vendetta probably saved your life tonight,» he said, his tone bitter.

Rallick leaned against a wall and crossed his arms. «Oh?»

Clan Leader Ocelot stepped close, his narrow, pitted face twisted into its habitual scowl. «The night's been a shambles, Nom. You've heard nothing?»

«No.

Ocelot's thin lips curled into a humourless smile. «A war has begun on the rooftops. Someone is killing us. We lost five Roamers in less than an hour, meaning there's more than one killer out there.»

«Undoubtedly,» Rallick replied, fidgeting as the damp stones of the inn's wall reached through his cloak and touched his flesh with chill. As always, Guild affairs bored him.

Ocelot continued, «We lost that bull of a man, Talo Krafar, and a Clan Leader.» The man snapped a glance over his shoulder as if expecting a sudden dagger to come flashing at his own back.

Despite his lack of interest Rallick's eyebrows lifted at this last bit of news. «They must be good.»

«Good? All of our eye-witnesses are dead, goes the sour joke this night. They don't make mistakes, the bastards.»

«Everyone makes mistakes,» Rallick muttered. «Has Vorcan gone out?»

Ocelot shook his head. «Not yet. She's too busy recalling all the Clans.»

Rallick frowned, curious in spite of himself. «Could this be a challenge to her Guild mastery? Perhaps an inside thing, a faction-»

«You think we're all fools, don't you, Nom? That was Vorcan's first suspicion. No, it's not internal. Whoever's killing our people is from outside the Guild, outside the city.»

To Rallick the answer seemed obvious suddenly, and he shrugged. «An Empire Claw, then.»

Though his expression bore reluctance, Ocelot nevertheless acknowledged agreement. «Likely,» he grated. «They're supposed to be the best, aren't they? But why go after the Guild? You'd think they'd be taking out the nobles.»

«Are you asking me to guess the Empire's intentions, Ocelot?»

The Clan Leader blinked, then his scowl deepened. «I came to warn you. And that's a favour, Nom. With you wrapped up in this vendetta thing, the Guild's not obliged to spread its wing over you. A favour.»

Rallick pushed himself from the wall and turned to the alley-mouth.

«A favour, Ocelot?» He laughed softly.

«We're setting a trap,» Ocelot said, moving to block Rallick's way. He jerked his scarred chin at the Phoenix Inn. «Make yourself visible, and leave no doubt as to what you do for a living.»

Rallick's gaze on Ocelot held steady, impassive. «Bait.»

«Just do it.»

Without replying, Rallick left the alley, climbed the steps and entered the Phoenix Inn.

«There is a shaping in the night,» Crone said, after Turban Orr had left.

The air around her shimmered as she assumed her true shape.

Baruk strode to his map table, hands clasped behind his back to still the trembling that had seized them. «You felt it too, then.» He paused, then sighed. «All in all, these seem the busiest hours.»

«A convergence of power ever yields thus,» Crone said, as she rose to stretch her wings. «The black winds gather, Alchemist. Beware their flaying breath.»

Baruk grunted. «While you ride them, a harbinger of our tragic ills.»

Crone laughed. She waddled to the window. «My master comes. I've other tasks before me.»

Baruk turned. «Permit me,» he said, gesturing. The window swung clear.

Crone flapped up on to the sill. She swivelled her head round and cocked an eye at Baruk. «I see twelve ships riding a deep harbour,» she said. «Eleven stand tall in flames.»

Baruk stiffened. He had not anticipated a prophecy. Now he was afraid. «And the twelfth?» he asked, his voice barely a whisper. «On the wind a hailstorm of sparks fill the night sky. I see them spinning, spinning about the last vessel.» Crone paused. «Still spinning.» Then she was gone.

Baruk's shoulders slumped. He turned back to the map on the table and studied the eleven once Free Cities that now bore the Empire flag.

Only Darujhistan remained, the twelfth and last marked by a flag that was not burgundy and grey. «The passing of freedom,» he murmured.

Suddenly the walls around him groaned, and Baruk gasped as an enormous weight seemed to press down on him. The blood pounded in his head, lancing him with pain. He gripped the edge of the map table to steady himself. The incandescent globes of light suspended from the ceiling dimmed, then flickered out. In the darkness the alchemist heard cracks sweeping down the walls, as if a giant's hand had descended on the building. All at once the pressure vanished. Baruk raised a shaking hand to his sweat-slicked brow.

A soft voice spoke behind him. «Greetings, High Alchemist. I am the Lord of Moon's Spawn.»

Still facing the table, Baruk closed his eyes and nodded. «The title isn't necessary,» he whispered. «Please call me Baruk.»

«I'm at home in darkness,» the Lord said. «Will this prove an inconvenience, Baruk?»

The alchemist muttered a spell. Before him the details of the map on the table took on distinction, emanating a cool blue glow. He faced the Lord and was startled to discover that the tall, cloaked figure reflected as little heat as the room's inanimate objects. Nevertheless, he was able to distinguish quite clearly the man's features. «You're Tiste And?» he said.

The Lord bowed slightly. His angled, multihued eyes scanned the room. «Have you any wine, Baruk?»

«Of course, Lord.» The alchemist walked over to his desk.

«My name, as best as it can be pronounced by humans, is Anomander Rake.» The Lord followed Baruk to the desk, his boots clicking on the polished marble floor.

Baruk poured wine, then turned to study Rake with some curiosity. He had heard that Tiste And? warriors were fighting the Empire up north, commanded by a savage beast of a man named Caladan Brood. They had allied with the Crimson Guard and, together, the two forces were decimating the Malazans. So, there were Tiste And? in Moon's Spawn, and the man standing before him was their lord.

This moment marked the first time Baruk had ever seen a Tiste And? face to face. He was more than a little disturbed. Such remarkable eyes, he thought. One moment a deep hue of amber, cat-like and unnerving, the next grey and banded like a snake's-a fell rainbow of colours to match any mood. He wondered if they were capable of lying.

In the alchemist's library lay copies of the surviving tomes of Gothos» Folly, Jaghut writings from millennia past. In them Tiste And? were mentioned here and there in an aura of fear, Baruk recalled. Gothos himself, a Jaghut wizard who had descended the deepest warrens of Elder Magic, had praised the gods of the time that the Tiste And? were so few in number. And if anything, the mysterious black-skinned race had dwindled since then.

Anomander Rake's skin was jet-black, befitting Gothos» descriptions, but his mane flowed silver. He stood close to seven feet tall. His features were sharp, as if cut from onyx, a slight upward tilt to the large vertical-pupilled eyes.

A two-handed sword was strapped to Rake's broad back, its silver dragonskull pommel and archaic crosshilt jutting from a wooden scabbard fully six and a half feet long. From the weapon bled power, staining the air like black ink in a pool of water. As his gaze rested on it Baruk almost reeled, seeing, for a brief moment, a vast darkness yawning before him, cold as the heart of a glacier, from which came the stench of antiquity and a faint groaning sound. Baruk wrenched his eyes from the weapon, looked up to find Rake studying him from over one shoulder.

The Tiste And? quirked a knowing smile, then handed Baruk one of the wine-filled goblets. «Was Crone her usual melodramatic self?»

Baruk blinked, then could not help but grin.

Rake sipped his wine. «She's never been modest in displaying her talents. Shall we sit?»

«Of course,» Baruk replied, relaxing in spite of his trepidation. From his years of study the alchemist knew that great power shaped different souls differently. Had Rake's been twisted Baruk would have known immediately. But the Lord's control seemed absolute. That alone engendered awe. The man shaped his power, not the other way around.

Such control was, well, inhuman. He suspected that this would not be the first insight he'd have regarding this warrior-mage that would leave him astonished and frightened.

«She threw everything she had at me,» Rake said suddenly. The Tiste And?» s eyes shone green as glacial ice.

Startled by the vehemence of that outburst, Baruk frowned. She? Oh, the Empress, of course.

«And even then,» Rake continued,» she couldn't bring me down.»

The alchemist stiffened in his chair. «Yet,» he said cautiously, «you were driven back, battered and beaten. I can feel your power, Anomander Rake,» he added, grimacing. «It pulses from you like waves. So I must ask: how is it you were defeated? I know something of the Empire's High Mage Tayschrenn. He has power but it's no match to yours. So again I ask, how?»

His gaze on the map table, Rake replied, «I've committed my sorcerers and warriors to Brood's north campaign.» He turned a humourless grin on Baruk. «Within my city are children, priests and three elderly, exceedingly bookish warlocks.»

City? There was a city within Moon's Spawn?

A dun tone had entered Rake's eyes. «I cannot defend an entire Moon. I cannot be everywhere at once. And as for Tayschrenn, he didn't give a damn about the people around him. I thought to dissuade him, make the price too high:» He shook his head as if perplexed, then he looked to Baruk. «To save the home of my people, I retreated.»

«Leaving Pale to fall-» Baruk shut his mouth, cursing his lack of tact.

But Rake merely shrugged. «I didn't anticipate that I'd face a full assault. My presence alone had been keeping the Empire at bay for almost two years.»

«I've heard the Empress is short of patience,» murmured Baruk thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed, then he looked up. «You have asked to meet with me, Anomander Rake, and so here we are. What is it you wish from me?»

«An alliance,» the Moon's lord answered.

«With me? Personally?»

«No games, Baruk.» Rake's voice was suddenly cold. «I'm not fooled by that Council of idiots bickering at Majesty Hall. I know that it's you and your fellow mages who rule Darujhistan.» He rose and glared down with eyes of grey. «I'll tell you this. For the Empress your city is the lone pearl on this continent of mud. She wants it and what she wants she usually gets.»

Baruk reached down and plucked at the frayed edge of his robe. «I see,» he said, in a low voice. «Pale had its wizards.»

Rake frowned. «Indeed.»

«Yet,» Baruk continued, «when the battle was begun in earnest, your first thought was not for the alliance you made with the city but for the well-being of your Moon.»

«Who told you this?» Rake demanded.

Baruk looked up and raised both hands. «Some of those wizards managed to escape.»

«They're in the city?» Rake's eyes had gone black.

Seeing them, Baruk felt sweat break out beneath his clothes. «Why?» he asked.

«I want their heads,» Rake replied casually. He refilled his goblet and took a sip.

An icy hand had slipped around Baruk's heart and was now tightening. His headache had increased tenfold in the last few seconds. «Why?»

he asked again, the word coming out almost as a gasp.

If the Tiste And? knew of the alchemist's sudden discomfort he made no sign of it. «Why?» He seemed to roll the word in his mouth like wine, a light smile touching his lips. «When the Moranth army came down from the mountains, and Tayschrenn rode at the head of his wizard cadre, and when word spread that an Empire Claw had infiltrated the city,» Rake's smile twisted into a snarl,» the wizards of Pale fled.» He paused, as if reliving memories. «I dispatched the Claw when they were but a dozen steps inside the walls.» He paused again, his face betraying a flash of regret. «Had the city's wizards remained, the assault would have been repelled. Tayschrenn, it seemed, was preoccupied with: other imperatives. He'd saturated his position-a hilltop-with defensive wards. Then he unleashed demons not against me but against some of his companions. That baffled me but, rather than allow such conjurings; to wander at will, I expended vital power destroying them.» He sighed and said, «I pulled the Moon back mere minutes from its destruction. I left it to drift south and went after those wizards.»

«After them?»

«I tracked down all but two.» Rake gazed at Baruk. «I want those two, preferably alive, but their heads will suffice.»

«You killed those you found? How?»

«With my sword, of course.»

Baruk recoiled as if struck. «Oh,» he whispered. «Oh.

«The alliance,» Rake said, before draining his goblet.

«I'll speak to the Cabal on this matter,» Baruk answered, rising shakily to his feet. «Word of the decision will be sent to you soon.» He stared at the sword strapped to the Tiste And?» s back. «Tell me, if you get those wizards alive, will you use that on them?»

Rake frowned. «Of course.»

Turning away, Baruk closed his eyes. «You'll have their heads, then.»

Behind him Rake laughed harshly. «There's too much mercy in your heart, Alchemist.»

The pale light beyond the window signified the dawn. Within the Phoenix Inn only one table remained occupied. Around it sat four men, one asleep in his chair with his head lying in a pool of stale beer. He snored loudly. The others were playing cards, two red-eyed with exhaustion while the last one studied his hand and talked. And talked.

«And then there was the time I saved Rallick Nom's life, at the back of All Eve's Street. Four, no, five nefarious hoodlums had backed the boy to a wall. He was barely standing, was Rallick, gushing blood from a hundred knife wounds. Clear to me was the grim fact that it couldn't last much longer, that tussle. I come up on them six assassins from behind, old Kruppe with fire dancing on his fingertips-a magical spell of frightful violence. I uttered the cantrip in a single breath and lo! Six piles of ash at Rallick's feet. Six piles of ash aglitter with the coin from their wallets-hah! A worthy reward!»

Murillio leaned his long, elegant frame close to Crokus Younghand. «Is this possible?» he whispered. «For a turn to last as long as Kruppe's?»

Crokus grinned wearily at his friend. «I don't mind, really. It's safe in here, and that's what counts for me.»

«Assassin's war, bosh!» Kruppe said, leaning back to mop his brow with a wilted silk handkerchief. «Kruppe remains entirely unconvinced. Tell me, did you not see Rallick Nom in here earlier? Spoke long with Murillio here, the lad did. As calm as ever, was he not?»

Murillio grimaced. «Nom gets like that every time he's just killed somebody. Lay down a card, dammit! I've early appointments to attend to.»

Crokus asked, «So what was Rallick talking to you about?»

Murillio's answer was a mere shrug. He continued glaring at Kruppe.

The small man's pencil-thin eyebrows rose. «Is it Kruppe's turn?»

Closing his eyes, Crokus slumped in his chair. He groaned. «I saw three assassins on the rooftops, Kruppe. And the two that killed the third went after me, even though it's obvious I'm no assassin.»

«Well,» said Murillio, eyeing the young thief's tattered clothing and the cuts and scrapes on his face and hands, «I'm inclined to believe you.»

«Fools! Kruppe sits at a table of fools.» Kruppe glanced down at the snoring man. «And Coll here is the biggest of them all. But sadly gifted with self-knowledge. Hence his present state, from which many profane truths might be drawn. Appointments, Murillio? Kruppe didn't think the city's multitude of mistresses awoke so early in the day. After all, what might they see in their mirrors? Kruppe shivers at the thought.»

Crokus massaged the bruise hidden beneath his long, brown hair. He winced, then leaned forward. «Come on, Kruppe,» he muttered. «Play a card.»

«My turn?»

«Seems self-knowledge doesn't extend to whose turn it is,» Murillio commented drily.

Boots sounded on the stairs. The three turned to see Rallick Nom descending from the first floor. The tall, dark-skinned man looked rested.

He wore his day cloak, a deep royal purple, clasped at the neck by a silver clamshell brooch. His black hair was freshly braided, framing his narrow, clean-shaven face. Raffick. walked up to the table and reached down to grasp Coll's thinning hair. He raised the man's head from the pool of beer and bent forward to study Coll's blotched face. Then he gently set down the man's head, and pulled up a chair.

«Is this the same game as last night?»

«Of course,» Kruppe replied. «Kruppe has these two men backed to the very wall, in danger of losing their very shirts! It's good to see you again friend Rallick. The lad here,» Kruppe indicated Crokus with a limp hand fingers fluttering, «speaks endlessly of murder above our heads. A veritable downpour of blood! Have you ever heard such nonsense Rallick, Kruppe's friend?»

Rallick shrugged. «Another rumour. This city was built on rumours.»

Crokus scowled to himself. It seemed that no one was willing to answer questions this morning. He wondered yet again what the assassin and Murillio had been talking about earlier; hunched as they'd been over a dimly lit table in one corner of the room, Crokus had suspected some sort of conspiracy. Not that such a thing was unusual for them, though most times Kruppe was at its centre.

Murillio swung his gaze to the bar. «Sulty!» he called out. «You awake?

There was a mumbled response from behind the wooden counter, the Sulty, her blonde hair dishevelled and plump face looking plumper, stood up. «Yah,» she mumbled. «What?»

«Breakfast for my friends here, if you please.» Murillio climbed to his feet and cast a critical, obviously disapproving eye over his clothing. The soft billowing shirt, dyed a bright green, now hung on his lanky frame wilted and beer-stained. His fine tanned leather pantaloons were crease and patchy. Sighing, Murillio stepped away from the table. «I must bath and change. As for the game, I surrender consumed by hopelessness Kruppe, I now believe, will never play his card, thus leaving us trapped in the unlikely world of his recollections and reminiscences, potentially for ever. Goodnight, one and all.» He and Rallick locked gazes, the Murillio gave a faint nod.

Crokus witnessed the exchange and his scowl deepened. He watched Murillio leave, then glanced at Rallick. The assassin sat staring down a Coll, his expression as unreadable as ever.

Sulty wandered into the kitchen, and a moment later the clanking of pots echoed into the room.

Crokus tossed his cards into the table's centre and leaned back, closing his eyes.

«Does the lad surrender as well?» Kruppe asked.

Crokus nodded.

«Hah, Kruppe remains undefeated.» He set down his cards and tucked in a napkin at his thick, jiggling neck.

In the thief's mind suspicions of intrigue ran wild. First the assassin's war now Rallick and Murillio had something cooking. He sighed mentally and opened his eyes. His whole body ached from the night's adventures but he knew he'd been lucky. He stared down at Coll without seeing him The vision of those tall, black assassins returned to him and he shivered.

Yet, for all the dangers hounding his back up on the rooftops this past night, he had to admit how exciting it'd all been. After slamming that door behind him and quaffing the beer Sulty had thrust into his hand, his whole body had trembled for an hour afterwards.

His gaze focused on Coll. Coll, Kruppe, Murillio and Rallick. What a strange group-a drunkard, an obese mage of dubious abilities, a dandified fop and a killer.

Still, they were his best friends. His parents had succumbed to the Winged Plague when he'd been four years old. Since then his uncle Mammot had raised him. The old scholar had done the best he could, but it hadn't been enough. Crokus found the street's shadows and moonless nights on rooftops far more exciting than his uncle's mouldy books.

Now, however, he felt very much alone. Kruppe's mask of blissful idiocy never dropped, not even for an instant-all through the years when Crokus had been apprenticed to the fat man in the art of thievery, he'd never seen Kruppe act otherwise. Coll's life seemed to involve the relentless avoidance of sobriety, for reasons unknown to Crokus-though he suspected that, once, Coll had been something more. And now Rallick and Murillio had counted him out of some new intrigue.

Into his thoughts came an image-the moonlit limbs of a sleeping maiden-and he angrily shook his head.

Sulty arrived with breakfast, husks of bread fried in butter, a chunk of goat cheese, a stem of local grapes and a pot of Callows bitter coffee. She served Crokus first and he muttered his thanks.

Kruppe's impatience grew while Sulty served Rallick. «Such impertinence,» the man said, adjusting his coat's wide, stained sleeves.

«Kruppe is of a mind to cast a thousand horrible spells on rude Sulty.»

«Kruppe had better not,» Rallick said.

«Oh, no, of course not,» Kruppe amended, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. «A wizard of my skills would never belittle himself on a mere scullion, after all.»

Sulty turned to him. «Scullion?» She snatched a bread husk from the plate and slapped it down on Kruppe's head. «Don't worry,» she said, as she walked back to the bar. «With hair like yours nobody'd notice.»

Kruppe pulled the husk from his head. He was about to toss it down on the floor, then changed his mind. He licked his lips. «Kruppe is magnanimous this morning,» he said, breaking into a wide smile and setting the bread down on his plate. He leaned forward and laced together his pudgy fingers. «Kruppe wishes to begin his meal with some grapes, please.»