Gardens of the Moon

CHAPTER SEVEN

This time, kruppe's dream took him out through marsh gap along South Road, then left on to Cutter Lake Road. Overhead the sky swirled a most unpleasant pattern of silver and pale green. «All is in flux,» Kruppe gasped, his feet hurrying him along the dust barren road. «The Coin has entered a child's possession, though it knows it not. Is it for Kruppe to walk this Monkey Road? Fortunatetly Kruppe's perfectly round body is an example of perfect symmetry. One not only born skilled at said balance, one must learn it through arduos practice. Of course, Kruppe is unique in never requiring practice in anything.»

Off in the fields to his left, within a circle of young trees, a small fire cast a hazy red glow up among the budding branches. Kruppe's sharp eye could make out a single figure seated there, seemingly holding its hands the flames. «Too many stones to turn underfoot,» he gasped, «on this rock rutted road. Kruppe would try the ribbed earth, which is yet too green with the season's growth. Indeed, yon fire beckons.» He left the road at approached the circle of trees.

As he strode between two slim boles and stepped into the pool of light the hooded figure turned slowly to study him, its face hidden in shadow despite the fire before it. Though it held its hands in the flame, they withstood the heat, the long, sinuous fingers spread wide.

«I would partake of this warmth,» Kruppe said, with a slight bow. «So rare within Kruppe's dreams of late.»

«Strangers wander through them,» the figure said, in a thin, oddly accented voice. «Such as I. Have you summoned me, then? It has been a long time since I walked on soil.»

Kruppe's brows rose. «Summoned? Nay, not Kruppe who is also a victim of his dreams. Imagine, after all, that Kruppe sleeps even now beneath warm blankets secure in his humble room. Yet see me, stranger, for I am cold, nay, chilled.»

The other laughed softly and beckoned Kruppe to the fire. «I seek sensation once again,» it said, «but my hands feel nothing. To be worshipped is to share the supplicant's pain. I fear my followers are no more.»

Kruppe was silent. He did not like the sombre mood of this dream. He held his hands before the fire yet felt little heat. A chill ache had settled into his knees. Finally he looked over the flames to the hooded figure opposite him. «Kruppe thinks you are an Elder God. Have you a name?»

«I am known as K'rul.»

Kruppe stiffened. His guess had been correct. The thought of an Elder God awakened and wandering through his dreams sent his thoughts scampering like frightened rabbits. «How have you come to be here, K'rul?» he asked, a tremor in his voice. All at once this place seemed too hot. He pulled his handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped sweat from his brow.

K'rul considered before answering, and Kruppe heard doubt in his voice. «Blood has been spilled behind the walls of this glowing city, Kruppe, upon stone once holy in my name. This-this is new to me.

«Once I reigned in the minds of many mortals, and they fed me well with blood and split bones. Long before the first towers of stone rose to mortal whims, I walked among hunters.» The hood tilted upward and Kruppe felt immortal eyes fixing upon him. «Blood has been spilled again, but that alone is not enough. I believe I am here to await one who will be awakened. One I have known before, long ago.»

Kruppe digested this like sour bile. «And what do you bring Kruppe?»

The Elder God rose abruptly. «An ancient fire that will give you warmth in times of need,» he said. «But I hold you to nothing. Seek the T'lan Imass who will lead the woman. They are the Awakeners. I must prepare for battle, I think. One I will lose.»

Kruppe's eyes widened with sudden comprehension. «You are being used,» he breathed.

«Perhaps. If so, then the Child Gods have made a grave error. After all,» a ghastly smile seemed to come into his tone, «I will lose a battle. But I will not die.» K'rul turned away from the fire then. His voice drifted back to Kruppe. «Play on, mortal. Every god falls at a mortal's hands. Such is the only end to immortality.»

The Elder God's wistfulness was not lost on Kruppe. He suspected that a great truth had been revealed to him with those final words, a truth he was now given leave to use. «And use it Kruppe shall,» he whispered.

The Elder God had left the pool of light, heading north-east across the fields. Kruppe stared at the fire. It licked the wood hungrily, but no ash was born, and though unfed since he'd arrived it did not dim. He shivered.

«In the hands of a child,» he muttered. «This night, Kruppe is truly alone in the world. Alone.»

An hour before dawn Circle Breaker was relieved of his vigil at Despot's Barbican. This night none had come to rendezvous beneath the gate.

Lightning played among the jagged peaks of the Tahlyn Mountains to the north as the man walked in solitude down the winding Charms of Anise Street in the Spice Quarter. Ahead and below glittered the Lakefront, the merchant trader ships from distant Callows, Elingarth and Kepler's Spite hunched dark and gloaming between gaslit stone piers.

A cool lake breeze carried to the man the smell of rain, though overhead the stars glistened with startling clarity. He had removed his tabard, folding it into a small leather satchel now slung on one shoulder. Only the plain shortsword strapped at his hip marked him as a soldier, yet a soldier without provenance.

He had divested himself of his official duties, and as he walked down towards the water, the years of service seemed to slough from his spirit.

Bright were the memories of his childhood at these docks, to which he had been ever drawn by the allure of the strange traders as they swung into their berths like weary and weathered heroes returned from some elemental war. In those days it was not uncommon to see the galleys of the Freemen Privateers ease into the bay, sleek and riding low with booty.

They hailed from such mysterious ports as Filman Orras, Fort By a Half, Dead Man's Story and Exile; names that rang of adventure in the ears of a lad who had never seen his home city from outside its walls.

The man slowed as he reached the foot of the stone pier. The years between him and that lad marched through his mind, a possession of martial images growing ever grimmer. If he searched out the many cross-roads he had come to in the past, he saw their skies storm-warped, the lands ragged and wind-torn. The forces of age and experience worked on them now, and whatever choices he had made then seemed fated and almost desperate.

Is it only the young who know desperation? he wondered, as he moved to sit on the pier's stone sea-wall. Before him rippled the bay's sooty waters. Twenty feet below, the rock-studded shore lay sheathed in darkness, the glitter of broken glass and crockery here and there winking like stars.

The man turned slightly to face the right. His gaze travelled the slope there as it climbed to the summit, on which loomed the squat bulk of Majesty Hall. Never reach too far. A simple lesson of life he had learned long ago on the burning deck of a corsair, its belly filling with the sea as it drifted outside the pinnacle fortifications of a city named Broken jaw.

Hubris, the scholars would call the fiery end of the Freemen Privateers.

Never reach too far. The man's eyes held on Majesty Hall. The deadlock that had come with the assassination of Councilman Lim still held within those walls. The Council raced aflurry in circles, more precious hours spent on eager speculation and gossip than on the matters of state.

Turban Orr, his victory on the voting floor snatched from his hands in the last moment, now flung his hounds down every trail, seeking the spies he was convinced had infiltrated his nest. The councilman was no fool.

Overhead a flock of grey gulls swept lakeward, crying into the nightchilled air. He drew a breath, hunched his shoulders and pulled his gaze with an effort from Majesty Hill.

Too late to, concern himself about reaching too far. Since the day the Eel's agent had come to him, the man's future was sealed; to some it would be called treason. And perhaps, in the end, it was treason. Who could say what lay in the Eel's mind? Even his principal agent-the man's contact-professed ignorance of his master's plans.

His thoughts returned to Turban Orr. He'd set himself against a cunning man, a man of power. His only defence against Orr lay in anonymity. It wouldn't last.

He sat on the pier, awaiting the Eel's agent. And he would deliver into that man's hands a message for the Eel. How much would change with the delivery of that missive? Was it wrong for him to seek help, to threaten his frail anonymity-the solitude that gave him so much inner strength, that stiffened his own resolve? Yet, to match wits with Turban Orr-he did not think he could do it alone.

The man reached into his jerkin and withdrew the scroll. A crossroads marked where he now stood, he recognized that much. In answer to his ill-measured fear, he'd written the plea for help on this scroll.

It would be an easy thing to do, to surrender now. He hefted the frail parchment in his hands, feeling its slight weight, the vague oiliness of the coating, the rough weave of its tie-string. An easy, desperate thing to do.

The man lifted his head. The sky had begun to pale, the lake wind picking up the day's momentum. There would be rain, coming from the north as it often did at this time of year. A cleansing of the city, a freshening of its spice-laden breath. He slipped the string from the scroll and unfurled the parchment.

So easy.

With slow, deliberate movements, the man tore up the scroll. He let the ragged pieces drift down, scattering into the gloom of the lake's shadowed shore. The rising waves swept them outward to dot the turgid swells like flecks of ash.

Coming from somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought he heard a coin spinning. It seemed a sad sound.

A few minutes later he left the pier. The Eel's agent, out on his morning stroll, would in passing note his contact's absence and simply continue on his way.

He made his way along the Lakefront Street with the summit of Majesty Hill dwindling behind him. As he passed, the first of the silk merchants appeared, laying out their wares on the wide paved walk.

Among the silks the man recognized the dyed lavender twists and bolts of Illem, the pale yellows of Setta and Lest-two cities to the south-east he knew had been annexed by the Pannion Seer in the last month-and the heavy bold twists of Sarrokalle. A dwindled sampling: all trade from the north had ended under Malazan dominion.

He turned from the lake at the entry to the Scented Wood and headed into the city. Four streets ahead his single room waited on the second floor of a decaying tenement, grey and silent with the coming dawn, its thin, warped door latched and locked. In that room he allowed no place for memories; nothing to mark him in a wizard's eye or tell the sharpwitted spy-hunter details of his life. In that room, he remained anonymous even to himself.

The Lady Sinital paced. These last few days too much of her hard-won gold had been spent smoothing the waters. That damn bitch of Lim's had not let grief get in the way of her greed. Barely two days shrouded in black and then out on the courts hanging on that fop Murillio's arm, smug as a tart at a ball.

Sinital's pencilled brows knitted slightly. Murillio: that young man had a way of being seen. He might be worth cultivation, all things considered.

She stopped pacing and faced the man sprawled on her bed. «So, you've learned nothing.» A hint of contempt had slipped into her tone and she wondered if he'd caught it.

Councilman Turban Orr, his heavily scarred forearm covering his eyes, did not move as he replied, «I've told you all this. There's no knowing where that poisoned quarrel came from, Sinital. Hell, poisoned! What assassin uses poison these days? Vorcan's got them so studded with magic everything else is obsolete.»

«You're digressing,» she said, satisfied that he'd missed the careless unveiling of her sentiments.

«It's like I said,» Orr continued. «Lim was involved in more than one, uh, delicate venture. The assassination's probably unconnected with you. It could have been anyone's balcony, it just happened to be yours.»

Lady Sinital crossed her arms. «I don't believe in coincidence, Turban. Tell me, was it coincidence that his death broke your majority-the night before the vote?» She saw the man's cheek twitch and knew she'd stung him. She smiled and moved to the bed. She sat and ran a hand along his bared thigh. «In any case, have you checked on him lately?»

«Him?»

Sinital scowled, withdrawing her hand and standing. «My beloved dispossessed, you idiot.»

Turban Orr's mouth curved into a smug smile. «I always keep a check on him for you, my dear. Nothing's changed in that area. He hasn't sobered up since you threw him out on his arse.» The man sat up and reached to the bedpost where his clothes hung. He began dressing.

Sinital whirled to him. «What are you doing?» she demanded, her voice strident.

«What's it look like?» Turban pulled on his breeches. «The debate rages on at Majesty Hall. My influence is required.»

«To do what? Bend yet another councilman to your will?»

He slipped on his silk shirt, still smiling. «That, and other things.»

Sinital rolled her eyes. «Oh, of course-the spy. I'd forgotten about him.»

«Personally,» Orr resumed, «I believe the proclamation of neutrality to the Malazans will go through-perhaps tomorrow or the next day.»

She laughed harshly. «Neutrality! You're beginning to believe your own propaganda. What you want, Turban Orr, is power, the naked absolute power that comes with being a Malazan High Fist. You think this the first step to paving your road into the Empress's arms. At the jo,» city's expense, but you don't give a damn about that.»

Turban sneered up at Sinital. «Stay out of politics, woman. Darujhistan's fall to the Empire is inevitable. Better a peaceful occupation than a violent one.»

«Peaceful? Are you blind to what happened to Pale's nobility? Oh, the ravens feasted on delicate flesh for days. This Empire devours noble blood.»

«What happened at Pale isn't as simple as you make it,» Turban said. «There was a Moranth reckoning involved, a clause in the alliance writ. Such culling will not occur here-and what if it does? We could use it as far as I'm concerned.» His grin returned. «So much for your hear bleeding to the city's woes. All that interests you is you. Save the righteous citizen offal for your fawns, Sinital.» He adjusted his leggings. Sinital stepped to the bedpost, reaching down to touch the silve pommel of Orr's duelling sword. «You should kill him and be done with it,» she said.

«Back to him again?» The councilman laughed as he rose. «Your brain works with all the subtlety of a malicious child.» He collected his sword and strapped it on. «It's a wonder you wrested anything from that idiot husband of yours-you were so evenly matched in matters of cunning.»

«The easiest thing to break is a man's heart,» Sinital said, with a private smile. She lay down on the bed. Stretching her arms and arching he back, she said, «What about Moon's Spawn? It's still just hanging there.» Gazing down at her his eyes travelling along her body, the councilman replied distractedly, «We've yet to work out a way to get a message up there. We've set up a tent in its shadow and stationed representatives in it but that mysterious lord just ignores us.»

«Maybe he's dead,» Sinital said, relaxing with a sigh. «Maybe the Moon's just sitting there because there's nobody left alive inside. Have you thought of that, dear Councilman?»

Turban Orr turned to the door. «We have. I'll see you tonight?»

«I want him killed,» Sinital said.

The councilman reached for the latch. «Maybe. I'll see you tonight?» he asked again.

«Maybe.»

Turban Orr's hand rested on the latch, then he opened the door an left the room.

Lying on her bed, Lady Sinital sighed. Her thoughts shifted to a certain dandy, whose loss to a certain widow would be a most delicious coup.

Murillio sipped spiced wine. «The details are sketchy,» he said, making a face as the fiery alcohol stung his lips.

In the street below a brilliantly painted carriage clattered past, draw by three white horses in black bridles. The man gripping the reins was robed in black and hooded. The horses tossed their heads, ears pinned back and eyes rolling, but the driver's broad, veined hands held them in check. On either side of the carriage walked middle-aged women. Bronz cups sat on their shaved heads from which unfurled wavering streams of scented smoke.

Murillio leaned against the railing and looked down upon the troupe.

«The bitch Fander's being carted out,» he said. «Bloody grim rituals, if you ask me.» He sat back in the plush chair and smiled at his companion, raising the goblet. «The Wolf Goddess of Winter dies her seasonal death, on a carpet of white, no less. And in a week's time the Gedderone F?te fills the streets with flowers, soon to clog gutters and block drains throughout the city.»

The young woman across from him smiled, her eyes on her own goblet of wine, which she held in both hands like an offering. «Which details were you referring to?» she asked, glancing up at him briefly.

«Details?»

She smiled faintly. «The sketchy ones.»

«Oh.» Murillio waved one gloved hand dismissively. «Lady Sinital's version held that Councilman Lim had come in person to acknowledge her formal invitation.»

«Invitation? Do you mean to the festive she's throwing on Gedderone's Eve?»

Murillio blinked. «Of course. Surely your house has been invited?»

«Oh, yes. And you?»

«Alas, no,» Murillio said, smiling.

Tfw- xxTnmnn 11 silent her eyelids lowering in thought. Murillio glanced back to the street below. He waited. Such things, after all, moved of their own accord, and even he could not guess the pace or track of a woman's thoughts, especially when it had to do with sex. And this was most assuredly a play for favours-Murillio's best game, and he always played it through. Never disappoint them, that was the key. The closest-held secret is the one that never sours with age.

Few of the other tables on the balcony were occupied, the establishment's noble patrons preferring the scented airs of the dining room within. Murillio found comfort in the buzzing life of the streets, and he knew his guest did too-at least in this instance. With all the noise rising from below, their chances of being overheard were slight.

As his gaze wandered aimlessly along Morul's Street of jewels, he stiffened slightly, eyes widening as they focused on a figure standing in a doorway opposite him. He shifted in his seat, dropping his left hand past the stone railing, out of the woman's sight. Then he jerked it repeatedly, glaring down at the figure.

Rallick Nom's smile broadened. He stepped away from the doorway and strolled up the street, pausing to inspect an array of pearls laid out on an ebony table in front of a store. The proprietor took a nervous step forward then relaxed as Rallick moved on.

Murillio sighed, leaning back and taking a mouthful of liquor. Idiot!

The man's face, his hands, his walk, his eyes, all said one thing: killer.

Hell, even his wardrobe had all the warmth and vitality of an executioner's uniform.

When it came to subtlety Rallick Nom was sorely lacking. Which made this whole thing rather odd, that such a complex scheme could have been born from the assassin's rigidly geometric brain. Still, whatever its origins, it was pure genius.

«Do you dearly wish to attend, Murillio?» the woman asked.

Murillio smiled his warmest smile. He looked away. «It's a large estate, isn't it?»

«Lady Sinital's? Indeed, fraught with rooms.» The woman dipped one dainty finger into the pungent, fiery liquid, then raised it to her lips, inserting it into her mouth as if in afterthought. She continued studying the goblet in her other hand. «I would expect a good many of the servants» quarters, though lacking in the simplest needs of luxury, will remain empty for much of the night.»

No clearer invitation did Murillio require. Rallick's plan centred on this very moment, and its consequences. Still, adultery had one drawback. Murillio, had no desire to meet this woman's husband on the duelling piste. He drove such disturbing thoughts away with another mouthful of wine. «I would love to attend the Lady's festival, on one condition.» He looked up and locked gazes with the woman. «That you will grace me with your company that night-for an hour or two, that is.» His brow assumed a troubled furrow. «I would not wish to impinge on your husband's claim on you, of course.» Which is exactly what he would be doing, and they both knew it.

«Of course,» the woman replied, suddenly coy. «That would be unseemly. How many invitations do you require?» «Two,» he said. «Best that I be seen with a companion.»

«Yes, it's best.»

Murillio glanced down at his now empty goblet with a rueful expression. Then he sighed. «Alas, I must be taking my leave.»

«I admire your self-discipline,» the woman said.

You won't on Gedderone's Eve, Murillio answered silently, as he rose from his chair. «The Lady of Chance has graced me with this meeting of ours,» he said, bowing. «Until the eve, Lady Orr.»

«Until then,» the councilman's wife answered, seeming already to lose interest in him. «Goodbye.»

Murillio, bowed again, then left the balcony. Among the crowded tables more than a few noblewomen's heavy-lidded eyes watched him leave.

Morul's Street of jewels ended at Sickle Gate. Rallick felt the wide eyes of the two guards beside the ramp following him as he passed through the passage between the massive stones of the Third Tier Wall. Ocelot had told him to make it plain, and while Murillio was of the opinion that only a blind man could ever mistake him for anything other than a killer, Rallick had taken pains to achieve the obvious.

The guards did nothing, of course. Giving the appearance of being a murderer wasn't the same as being one in truth. The city's laws were strict in such things. He knew he might find himself being followed as he strode down the opulent streets of Higher Estates, but he'd leave them to it, making no effort to lose them. Darujhistan's nobles paid good money to loose spies on to the streets day after day. Might as well make them earn their bread.

Rallick had no sympathy for them. He did not, however, share the commoner's hatred for the nobility. Their constant airs, prickly honours and endless squabbles made for good business, after all.

When the Malazan Empire came that would end, he suspected. In the Empire, assassin guilds were illegal, and those of the trade who were deemed worthy were enlisted into the secret ranks of the Claw. As for those who weren't considered worthy, they simply disappeared. The nobles didn't fare much better, if the rumours from Pale held any truth.

It would be a different world when the Empire came, and Rallick wasn't sure he wanted to be part of it.

Still, there were things left to achieve. He wondered if Murillio had succeeded in getting the invitations. Everything hinged on that. There'd been a long-drawn-out argument about it the night before. Murillio preferred widows. Adultery had never been his style. But Rallick had remained insistent, and finally Murillio had given in.

The assassin still wondered about his friend's reluctance. His first thought was that Murillio feared the possibility of a duel with Turban Orr. But Murillio was no slouch with a rapier. Rallick had practised with him in secluded places enough times to suspect that he was an Adept-and to that even Turban Orr could not make claim.

No, it wasn't fear that made Murillio shy from this part of the plan. It dawned on Rallick that there was a moral issue at stake. A whole new side of Murillio had revealed itself to Rallick then.

He was pondering the implications when his gaze found a familiar face among the street's crowd. He stopped and studied the surrounding buildings, and his eyes widened as he realized where his wanderings had taken him. His attention snapped back to the familiar figure appearing every few moments on the street's opposite side. The assassin's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

Beneath the mid-morning's blue and silver hue, Crokus walked along Lakefront Street surrounded by the bedlam of merchants and shoppers.

A dozen streets ahead rose the city hills beyond the Third Tier Wall. On the easternmost hill stood the K'rul belfry, its green-patched bronze scales glimmering in the sun's light.

To his mind the tower challenged Majesty Hall's bright mien, gazing over the estates and buildings crouched on the lower hills with its rheumed eyes and history-scarred face-a jaded cast to its mocking gleam.

Crokus shared something of the tower's imagined sardonic reserve for the pretence so rife in Majesty Hall, an emotion of his uncle's that had seeped into the lad over the years. Adding fuel to this fire was a healthy dose of youthful resentment towards anything that smacked of authority.

And though he gave it little thought, these provided the primary impulses for his thieving activities. Yet he'd never before understood the most subtle and hurtful insult his thefts delivered-the invasion and violation of privacy. Again and again, in his dreamy wanderings both day and night, the vision of the young woman asleep in her bed returned to him.

Eventually Crokus grasped that the vision had everything to do with everything. He'd come into her room, a place where the noble brats drooling at her heels couldn't enter, a place where she might talk to the ragged dolls of her childhood, when innocence didn't just mean a flower not yet plucked. Her sanctuary. And he'd despoiled it, he'd snatched from this young woman her most precious possession: her privacy.

No matter that she was the daughter of the D'Arles, that she was born to the pure blood-untainted by the Lady of Beggars» touch-that she would flow through life protected and shielded from the degradations of the real world. No matter any of these things. For Crokus, his crime against her was tantamount to rape. To have so boldly shattered her world:

His thoughts a storm of self-recrimination, the young thief turned up the Charms of Anise Street, pushing through the crowds.

In his mind the once-stalwart walls of righteous outrage were crumbling. The hated nobility had shown him a face that now haunted him with its beauty, and tugged him in a hundred unexpected directions.

The sweet scents of the spice stores, wafting like perfume on the warming breeze, had unaccountably lodged a nameless emotion in his throat.

The shouts of Daru children playing in the alleys brimmed his eyes w?h sentimental maundering.

Crokus strode through Clove Gate and entered Osserc Narrow.

Directly ahead rose the ramp leading into Higher Estates. As he approached he had to move quickly to one side to avoid a large carriage coming up on him from behind. He didn't need to see the crest adorning the carriage's side panel to recognize its house. The horses snapped and kicked, surging forward heedless of anyone or anything in their path.

Crokus paused to watch the carriage clatter up the ramp, people scattering to either side. From what he'd heard of Councilman Turban Orr, it seemed the duellist's horses matched his contempt for those he supposedly served.

By the time he reached the Orr estate the carriage had already passed through the outer gate. Four burly private guards had resumed their station to either side. The wall at their backs rose a full fifteen feet, topped with rusty iron cuttings set in sun-baked clay. Pumice torches lined the wall at ten-foot intervals. Crokus strolled past the gate, ignoring the guards. At the base the wall looked to be about four feet in breadth, the rough-hewn bricks a standard squared foot. He continued on along the street, then turned right to check the wall fronting the alley.

A single service door, tarred oak banded in bronze, was set in this wall at the nearest corner.

And no guard. The shadows of the opposite estate draped a heavy cloak across the narrow aisle. Crokus entered the damp, musty darkness.

He had travelled half the length of the alley when a hand closed around his mouth from behind and a dagger's sharp point pressed against his side. Crokus froze, then grunted as the hand pulled his face round. He found himself looking into familiar eyes.

Rallick Nom withdrew his dagger and stepped back, a severe frown marring his brow. Crokus gaped then licked his lips. «Rallick, Beru's Heart, you scared me!»

«Good,» the assassin said. He came close. «Listen carefully, Crokus.

You'll not try Orr's estate. You'll not go near it again.»

The thief shrugged. «It was just a thought, Nom.»

«Kill it,» Rallick said.

His lips thinning into a straight line, Crokus nodded. «All right.» He turned and headed towards the strip of bright sunlight marking the next street. He felt Rallick's eyes on him until he stepped out on to Traitor's Track. He stopped. Off to his left climbed High Gallows Hill, its immaculate flowered slope a burst of colours surrounding the fifty-three Winding Steps. The five nooses above the platform swung slightly in the breeze, their shadows streaks of black reaching down the slope to the cobbles of the street. It had been a long time since the last High Criminal was hanged, while off in the Gadrobi District the Low Gallows» ropes were replaced weekly due to stretching. An odd contrast to mark these tense times.

Abruptly, he shook his head. Avoiding the turmoil of questions was too much of an effort. Had Nom followed him? No, a lesser likelihood than the assassin having marked Orr or someone in the estate for murder.

A bold contract. He wondered who had had the guts to offer it-a fellow noble, no doubt. But the courage of the contract's offering paled when compared to Rallick's accepting it.

In any case, the weight of the assassin's warning was enough to crush any idea of thieving Orr's estate-at least for now. Crokus jammed his hands into his pockets. As he walked, his thoughts lost in a maze of dead ends, he frowned with the realization that one of his hands, probing deep in the pocket, had closed around a coin.

He withdrew it. Yes, it was the coin he'd found on the night of the assassinations. He recalled its inexplicable appearance, clattering at his feet an instant before the assassin's crossbow quarrel whizzed past.

Beneath the bright morning light Crokus now took the time to examine it. The first side he held up before him displayed the profile of a young man, with an amused expression, wearing some kind of floppy hat. Tiny rune-like lettering ran around the edge-a language the thief didn't recognize as it was so very different from the cursive Daru script with which he was familiar.

Crokus turned the coin. How odd! Another head, this one a woman's facing the other way. The etched script here was of a style different from the opposite side, a kind of left-slanting hatchwork. The woman looked young, with features similar to the man's; her expression held nothing of amusement, seeming to the thief's eyes cold and unyielding.

The metal was old, streaked here and there with raw copper and pitted around the faces with rough tin. The coin felt surprisingly heavy, though he concluded that its only worth lay in its uniqueness. He'd seen the coinage of Callows, Genabackis, Amat El and, once, the ridged bars of the Seguleh, but none had looked like this one.

Where had it fallen from? Had his clothing picked it up somewhere, or had he kicked it into motion while crossing the roof? Or had it been among the D'Arle maiden's treasure? Crokus shrugged. In any case, its arrival had been timely.

By this time his walk had taken him to the East Gate. Just outside the city wall and along the road called Jatem's Worry, crouched the handful of sagging buildings named Worrytown: the thief's destination. The gate remained open during daylight hours, and a slow-plodding line of vegetable-carts crowded the narrow passage. Among them, he saw as he pushed his way along one edge, were the first wagonloads of refugees from Pale, those who'd managed to slip through the siege lines during the battle and had crossed the south Rhivi Plain and then through the Gadrobi Hills and finally on to Jatem's Worry. Scanning their faces he saw a fiery desperation dulled by exhaustion: they looked upon the city with a jaded eye towards its meagre defences, realizing that they'd bought only a short measure of time with their flight, yet too tired to care.

Disturbed by what he saw, Crokus hurried through the gate and approached Worrytown's largest structure, a rambling wooden tavern.

Over the door hung a board on which had been painted, decades ago, a three-legged ram. To the thief's mind, the painting had nothing to do with the tavern's name, which was the Boar's Tears. The coin still in one hand, Crokus entered and paused just inside.

A few desultory faces turned to regard him briefly, then swung back to their cups. At a table in a gloomy corner opposite, Crokus saw a familiar figure, its hands raised above its head and gesticulating wildly. A grin tugged the thief's lips, and he strode forward.

«: and then did Kruppe sweep with motion so swift as to be unseen by any the king's crown and sceptre from the sarcophagus lid. Too many priests in this tomb, thinks Kruppe then, one less «twould be a relief to all lest the dead king's musty breath shorten and so awaken his wraith.

«Many times afore this had Kruppe faced a wraith's wrath in some deep pit of D'rek, droning its list of life-crimes and bemoaning its need to devour my soul-harrah! Kruppe was ever too elusive for such sundry spirits and their knock-kneed chatter-»

Crokus laid a hand on Kruppe's damp shoulder, and the shiny round face swung up to observe him. «Ah!» Kruppe exclaimed, waving a hand towards his lone companion at the table and explaining, «An apprentice past comes to fawn in due fashion! Crokus, be seated by all means possible. Wench! Some more of your finest wine, haste!» Crokus eyed the man seated opposite Kruppe. «Seems you two might be busy right now.»

Hope flared in the man's expression and he rose quickly. «Oh, no,» he exclaimed. «By all means interrupt.» His eyes darted to Kruppe then back to Crokus. «I must be leaving in any event, I assure you! Good day to you, Kruppe. Until some other time, then.» The man bobbed his head then departed.

«Precipitous creature,» Kruppe muttered, reaching for the mug of wine the man had left behind. «Ah, look at this,» he said, frowning up at Crokus, «nigh two-thirds full. A potential waste!» Kruppe drank it down in one swift gulp, then sighed. «Said potential averted, Dessembrae be praised.»

Crokus sat. «Was that man your trader contact?» he asked.

«Heavens, no.» Kruppe waved a hand. «A poor refugee from Pale, wandering lost. Fortunate for him was Kruppe, whose brilliant insights have sent him-»

«Straight out the door,» Crokus finished, laughing.

Kruppe scowled.

The serving woman arrived with an earthen carafe of sour-smelling wine. Kruppe refilled the mugs. «And now, wonders Kruppe, what would this expertly trained lad seek from this one-time master of all arts nefarious? Or have you triumphed yet again and come with booty atucked, seeking proper dispensation and the like?»

«Well, yes-I mean, no, not quite.» Crokus glanced around, then leaned forward. «It's about last time,» he whispered. «I knew you'd be out here to sell the stuff I brought you.»

Kruppe leaned forward to meet the lad, their faces inches apart. «The D'Arle acquisition?» he whispered back, waggling his eyebrows.

«Exactly! Have you sold it off yet?»

Kruppe pulled a handkerchief from a sleeve and mopped his brow.

«What with all this talk of war, the traders» routes are all amiss. So, to answer your question, uhm, not quite yet, admits Kruppe-»

«Great!»

Kruppe started at the lad's shout, his eyes squeezing shut. When they opened again they were thin slits. «Ah, Kruppe understands. The lad wishes their return to his possession so that he might seek higher recompense elsewhere?»

Crokus blinked. «No, of course not. I mean, yes, I want it back. But I'm not planning on fencing it anywhere. That is, I'm still dealing with you on everything else. Only this one's special.» As he spoke Crokus felt heat rise to his face, and was thankful for the gloom. «A special case, Kruppe.»

A broad smile broke on Kruppe's round face. «Why, most certainly, then, lad. Shall I deliver said items to you this eve? Excellent, consider the matter closed. Pray, tell, what do you have in yon hand there?»

Crokus stared in confusion, then he glanced down at his hand. «Oh, just a coin,» he explained, showing it to Kruppe. «I picked it up the same night I thieved D'Arle's. Two-headed, see?»

«Indeed? May Kruppe examine the peculiar item more closely?»

Crokus obliged, then reached for the mug of wine. He leaned back. «I was thinking of Orr's estate next,» he said casually, his eyes fixed on Kruppe.

«Mmm.» Kruppe turned the coin in his hand again and again. «Poorest quality cast,» he muttered. «Crooked stamping, too. Orr's estate, you say? Kruppe advises caution. The house is well protected. The metallurgist who foundried this should have been hanged, indeed, probably was, thinks Kruppe. Black copper, no less. Cheap tin, temperatures all too cool. Favour me, Crokus? Peruse the scene in the street from yon door. If you spy a red and green merchant's wagon wobbling into town, Kruppe would be much obliged for such information.»

Crokus rose and crossed the room to the door. Opening it he stepped outside and glanced around. Seeing no wagon in sight, the youth shrugged again and went back inside. He returned to the table. «No merchant wagon.»

«Ah, well,» Kruppe said. He set down the coin on the table. «Altogether worthless, judges wise Kruppe. You may part with it at your leisure.»

Crokus collected the coin and slipped it into his pocket. «No, I'm keeping it. For good luck.»

Kruppe looked up, his eyes bright, but Crokus had his attention on the mug in his hands. The fat man glanced away, sighing. «Kruppe must needs depart immediately, if this eve's rendezvous is to be propitious for all involved.»

Crokus drained his wine. «We can head back together.»

«Excellent.» Kruppe rose, pausing to brush crumbs from his chest.

«Shall we be off, then?» He looked up to see Crokus frowning down at his hand. «Has something smitten the lad?» he asked quickly.

Crokus started. He looked away guiltily, the colour rising in his face.

«No,» he mumbled. He glanced again at his hand. «I must've picked up some wax somewhere,» he explained. He rubbed his hand on his leg and grinned sheepishly. «Let's go.»

«It will be a fine day for a walk, pronounces Kruppe, who is wise in all things.»

White Gold's Round encircled an abandoned tower with a panoply of brightly dyed awnings. The goldsmith merchant shops, each with their own security guards loitering outside, faced out on the round street, the aisles between them narrow cracks leading to the tower's ruined compound.

The many tales of death and madness surrounding Hinter's Tower and its environs kept it empty and, uppermost in the minds of the goldsmiths, an unlikely approach to their precious stores.

As the afternoon waned towards dusk, the Round's crowds thinned and the private guards grew more wary. Iron grilles rattled into place over storefronts here and there, and among the few that remained open, torches were ignited.

Murillio entered the Round from the Third Tier Road, pausing every now and then to examine a shopkeeper's wares. Wrapped in a shimmering blue cloak from the Malle Waste, Murillio knew his ostentatious display of wealth would do much to allay suspicion.

He came to one shop in particular, framed on either side by unlit stores.

The goldsmith, narrow-faced and pebble-nosed, leaned hawkishly on his counter, his weathered hands before him bearing tiny grey scars that looked like raven tracks on mud. One finger tapped a restless beat. Murillio approached, meeting the man's beetle eyes.

«Is this the shop of Krute of Talient?»

«I'm Krute,» the goldsmith grated sourly, as if disgruntled with his lot in life. «Talient pearls, set in Bloodgold from the mines of Moap and Belt, none other to be found in all Darujhistan.» He leaned forward and spat past Murillio, who involuntarily stepped to one side.

«No customers this day?» he asked, pulling a handkerchief from his sleeve and touching his lips.

Krute's gaze tightened. «Only one,» he said. «Perused a cache of Goaliss gems, rare as dragon's milk and suckled from rock as grim. A hundred slaves lost to each stone prised from the angry veins.» Krute's shoulders jerked and his eyes darted. «Out the back I keep them, lest temptation spatter the street with blood, and like.»

Murillio nodded. «Sound practice. Did he purchase any?»

Krute grinned, revealing blackened stumps for teeth. «One, but not the best. Come, I'll show you.» He went to the side door and opened it.

«Through here, then.»

Murillio entered the shop. Black curtains covered the walls, and the air was musty with old sweat. Krute led him into the back room, which if anything was more rank and stifling than the first. The goldsmith dropped the curtain between the two rooms and faced Murillio.

«Move quickly! I've laid out a horde of fool's gold and worthless stones on the counter out front. If any sharp-eyed customer marks them this hole will be finished.» He kicked at the back wall and a panel swung from its hinges. «Crawl through, dammit, and tell Rallick that the Guild is not pleased with his generosity regarding our secrets. Go!»

Murillio fell to his knees and pushed his way through the portal, the earthen floor damp beneath his hands and staining his knees. He groaned his distaste as the door swung down behind him, then climbed to his feet.

Before him rose Hinter's Tower, its mould-ridden stone walls glistening in the dying light. An overgrown cobbled pathway led up to the arched entrance bereft of a door and heavy with shadows. Of the chamber within Murillio saw only darkness.

Roots from the scraggy scrub oaks lining the path had pushed most of the cobbles up from the earth, making the way treacherous. After a cautious minute Murillio arrived at the doorway. He narrowed his gaze and tried to pierce the darkness. «Rallick?» he hissed. "Where the hell are you?» A voice spoke behind him. «You're late.»

Murillio spun, a long, thin duelling rapier in his left hand rasping from its sheath and sweeping low into guard position, a main-gauche appearing in his right hand as he dropped into a defensive crouch, then relaxed.

«Dammit, Rallick!»

The assassin grunted in amusement, eyeing the rapier's razor-sharp tip, which had but a moment earlier hovered inches from his solar plexis.

«Good to see your reflexes have not dulled, friend. All that wine and those pastries seem not to have girdled you: much.»

Murillio resheathed his weapons. «I expected to find you in the tower.»

Eyes widening, Rallick said, «Are you mad? The place is haunted.»

«You mean that's not just a story you assassins made up to keep people away?»

Rallick turned and made his way to a lower terrace that had once overlooked the garden. White stone benches squatted in the wiry yellow grass like the stained bones of some gargantuan beast. Below the terrace, Murillio saw as he joined the assassin, sprawled a muddy, algae-filled pond. Frogs croaked and mosquitoes buzzed in the tepid air. «Some nights,» Rallick said as he brushed dead leaves from one of the benches, «wraiths crowd the entrance-you can walk right up to them, listen to their pleas and threats. They all want out.» He sat down.

Murillio remained standing, his gaze on the tower. «What of Hinter himself? Does his wraith number among them?»

«No. The madman sleeps within, or so it's said. The wraiths are trapped in the sorcerer's nightmares-he holds on to them, and even Hood cannot draw them to his cold bosom. Do you wish to know where those wraiths have come from, Murillio?» Rallick grinned. «Enter the tower, and you'll discover it first hand.»

Murillio had been about to go into the tower when Rallick had surprised him. «Thanks for the warning,» he snapped sarcastically, gathering his cloak and sitting down.

Rallick waved the mosquitoes from his face. «Well?»

«I have them,» Murillio said. «Lady Orr's most trusted hand-servant delivered them this afternoon.» He removed from inside his cloak a bamboo tube tied in blue ribbon. «Two invitations to Lady Sinital's F?te, as promised.»

«Good.» The assassin looked quickly at his friend. «You've not seen Kruppe's nose twitch?»

«Not yet. Ran into him this afternoon. Seems Crokus is making some bizarre demands. Of course,» Murillio added, scowling, «who can tell when Kruppe's caught wind of something? In any case, I've seen nothing to suggest the slippery little gnome suspects we're up to anything.»

«What was that you said about Crokus making bizarre demands?»

«A peculiar thing, that,» Murillio mused. «When I dropped by the Phoenix Inn this afternoon Kruppe was delivering to the lad the pickings from his last job. Now, surely Crokus hasn't abandoned Kruppe as his fence-we all would've caught wind of that.»

«That was from an estate, wasn't it? Whose?» Rallick asked.

«D'Arle's,» Murillio answered, then his eyebrows rose. «Kiss of Gedderone! The D'Arle maiden! The ripe one with the cheeks-she's being shown at damn near every gathering, all the frilly lads leaving a trail for the mop-boys. Oh, my! Our young thief is perchance smitten, and now keeps her baubles for himself. Of all the hopeless dreams a boy could have, he's reached for the worst.»

«Maybe,» Rallick said quietly. «Maybe not. A word to his uncle. .»

Murillio's pained expression lifted. «A nudge in the right direction? Yes, finally! Marnmot will be pleased-»

«Patience,» Rallick interjected. «Turning a thieving child into a man of standing and learning will require more work than a swooning heart will manage.»

Murillio frowned. «Well, forgive me for being so excited at the prospect of saving the lad's life.»

Rallick's smile was soft. «Never regret such pleasure,» he said.

Catching the assassin's tone, Murillio sighed, the sharp edges of his sarcasm sinking away. «It's been many years since we had so many things of hope to strive for,» he said quietly.

«The path to one will be bloody,» Rallick said. «Don't forget that. But, yes, it's been a long time. I wonder if Kruppe even remembers such days.»

Murillio snorted. «Kruppe's memory is revised hourly. All that holds him together is fear of being discovered.»

Rallick's eyes darkened. «Discovered?»

His friend seemed far away but then he collected himself and smiled.

«Oh, worn suspicions, no more. He's a slippery one, is Kruppe.»

Rallick chuckled at Murillio's mocking syntax. He studied the pond before them. «Yes,» he agreed, after a time, «he's the slippery one, all right.» He stood. «Krute will be wanting to close up. The Round's asleep by now.»

«Right.»

The two men left the terrace, methane mists swirling around their legs.

As they reached the path Murillio turned for a look at the tower's doorway, wondering if he could see the gibbering wraiths, but all he saw beneath the sagging arch was a wall of darkness. In some strange way he found that more disturbing than any horde of lost souls he might imagine.

Bright morning sunlight flowed in from the broad windows of Baruk's study, and a warm wind slipped into the room carrying the smells and noises from the street below. The alchemist, still dressed in his nightclothes, sat on a high stool at the map table. He held a brush in one hand, dipping it now and again into an ornate silver inkwell.

The red ink had been watered down. He painted wash on the map, covering the areas now held by the Malazan Empire. Fully one half of the map-the north half-was red. A small clear strip just south of Blackdog Forest marked Caladan Brood's forces, flanked on either side by two smaller patches indicating the Crimson Guard. The red wash surrounded these clear spots and extended down to engulf Pale, ending on the north edge of the Tahlyn Mountains.

The street noises had become quite loud, Baruk noted, as he leaned close to the map to paint the red tide's southern border. Construction work, he concluded, hearing the squeal of winches and a voice bellowing at passers-by. The sounds died away, then there came a loud crack!

Baruk jumped, his right forearm jerking out and knocking over the inkwell. The red ink poured across his map.

Cursing, Baruk sat back. His eyes widened as he watched the spreading stain cover Darujhistan and continue south to Catlin. He stepped down from the stool, reaching for a cloth to wipe his hands, more than a little shaken by what could easily be taken as an omen. He walked across the chamber to the window, bent forward and looked down.

A crew of workers was busy tearing up the street directly below. Two burly men swung picks while three others formed a line passing the shattered cobblestones to a growing pile on the pavement. The foreman stood nearby, his back to a wagon, studying a parchment scroll.

Baruk frowned. «Who's in charge of road maintenance?» he wondered aloud.

A soft knock diverted his attention. «Yes?»

His servant, Roald, took a single step into the room. «One of your agents has arrived, Lord.»

Baruk flicked a glance at the map table. «Have him wait a moment, Roald.»

«Yes, Lord.» The servant stepped back and closed the door.

The alchemist walked over to the table and rolled up the ruined map.

From the hallway came a 1"-ua voice- i6kkovieA'b-Y a murmur. Baruk slid the map on to a shelf and turned in time to see the agent enter, on his trail a xxx. Waving at Roald to leave, Baruk gazed down at the gaudily dressed man. «Good day, Kruppe.»

Roald stepped out and softly shut the door.

«More than good, Baruk, dear friend of Kruppe. Truly wonderful! Have you partaken of the morn's fresh air?»

Baruk glanced at the window. «Unfortunately,» he said,» the air outside my window has become rather dusty.»

Kruppe paused. His arms returned to his sides, then he reached into a sleeve and withdrew his handkerchief. He patted his brow. «Ah, yes, the road workers. Kruppe passed them on his way in. A rather belligerent lot, thinks Kruppe. Indeed, rude, but hardly exceptional for such menial labourers.»

Baruk gestured to a chair.

With a beatific smile Kruppe sat. «Such a hot day,» he said, eyeing the carafe of wine on the mantelpiece.

Ignoring this, Baruk strode to the window then turned his back to it.

He studied the man, wondering if he would ever catch a glimpse of what lay beyond Kruppe's cherubic demeanour. «What have you heard?» he asked softly.

«What has Kruppe heard? What hasn't Kruppe heard!»

Baruk raised an eyebrow. «How about brevity?»

The man shifted in the chair and mopped his forehead. «Such heat.»

Seeing Baruk's expression harden, he continued, «Now, as for news.» He leaned forward, his voice falling to a whisper. «'Tis muttered in corners in the bars, in dark doorways of dank streets, in the nefarious shadows of nocturnal night, in-»

«Get on with it!»

«Yes, of course. Well, Kruppe has caught wind of a rumour. An assassin's war, no less. The Guild is taking losses, «tis said.»

Baruk turned back to the window, his eyes on the street below. «And where do the thieves stand?»

«The rooftops are getting crowded. Throats are being slit. Profits have plummeted.»

«Where's Rallick?»

Kruppe blinked. «He's disappeared,» he said. «Kruppe has not seen him in days.»

«This assassin's war, it isn't internal?»

«No.»

«Has this new force been identified, then?»

«No.»

Baruk's gaze intensified. Below, the street workers seemed to spend more time arguing than working. An assassin's war could be trouble.

Vorcan's Guild was strong, but the Empire was stronger, if indeed these newcomers were Claws. But something felt decidedly odd about the whole thing. In the past the Empress used such local guilds, often recruited from them. The alchemist could discern no purpose behind such a war, and that was even more disturbing to him than the war itself.

Hearing a shuffling behind him, he remembered his agent. He turned and smiled. «You can go now.»

Something flashed in Kruppe's eyes that startled Baruk. The fat man rose in a single fluid motion. «Kruppe has more to tell, Master Baruk.»

Bemused, the alchemist nodded for Kruppe to continue.

«The tale is arduous and confused, alas,» he said, striding to join Baruk at the window. His handkerchief had disappeared. «Kruppe can only surmise as best a man of innumerable talents may. In moments of leisure, during games of chance and the like. In the aura of the Twins an Adept may hear, see, smell, and touch things as insubstantial as the wind. A taste of Lady Luck, the bitter warning of the Lord's Laughter.» Kruppe's gaze snapped to the alchemist. «Do you follow, Master?»

His eyes riveted on the man's round face, Baruk said quietly, «You speak of Oponn.»

Kruppe looked back down at the street. «Perhaps. Perhaps a grim feint meant to mislead such as foolish Kruppe-»

Foolish? Baruk smiled inwardly. Not this man.

«Who who can say?» Kruppe raised a hand, showing in his palm a flat disc of wax. «An item,» he said softly, his eyes on the disc, «that passes without provenance, pursued by many who thirst for its cold kiss, on which life and all that lay within life is often gambled. Alone, a beggar's crown. In great numbers, a king's folly. Weighted with ruin, yet blood washes from it beneath the lightest rain, and to the next no hint of its cost. It is as it is, says Kruppe, worthless but for those who insist otherwise.»

Baruk was holding his breath. His lungs burned, yet it was an effort to release them. Kruppe's words had drawn him into something-a place, hinting of vast stores of knowledge and the sure, unfailing, epreci_e hand that had gathered it, marked it on parchment. A library, shelves of black wood in sharp relief, tomes bound to shiny leather, yellowed scrolls, a pitted, stained desk-Baruk felt he had but stolen a single glance into this chamber. Kruppe's mind, the secret place with its door locked to all but one. «You speak,» Baruk said slowly, fighting to pull back into reality by focusing on the wax disc in Kruppe's hand, «of a coin.»

Kruppe's hand snapped shut. He turned and set the disc down on the window-sill. «Examine this semblance, Master Baruk. It marks both sides of a single coin.» The handkerchief reappeared and Kruppe stepped back, dabbing his brow. «My, but it is hot, says Kruppe!»

«Help yourself to some wine,» Baruk murmured. As the man left his side the alchemist opened his Warren. He gestured and the wax disc rose into the air, slowly moving to hover before him at eye-level. He studied the imprint facing him. «The Lady,» he muttered, nodding. The disc turned, revealing to him the Lord. The disc turned again, and Baruk's eyes widened as it began spinning. A whirring sound filled the back of his head. He felt his Warren resisting a pressure that grew with the sound, then his source collapsed.

Faintly, as if from a great distance, he heard Kruppe speak. «Even in this semblance, Master Baruk, blows the Twins» breath. No mage's Warren can withstand that wind.»

The disc still spun in the air in front of Baruk, a silver blur. A fine mist expanded around it. Hot droplets spattered his face and he stepped back.

Blue fire flickered from the melting wax, the disc dwindling rapidly. A moment later it vanished, and the spinning sound and its accompanying pressure stopped abruptly.

The sudden silence filled Baruk's head with pain. He laid a trembling hand on the window-sill for support, then closed his eyes. «Who carries the Coin, Kruppe?» His voice rasped from his constricted throat. «Who?»

Kruppe once again stood at his side. «A lad,» he answered casually. «Known to Kruppe, assuredly so, as well as to your other agents, Murillio, Rallick and Coll.»

Baruk's eyes reopened. «That can't be a coincidence,» he hissed, a desperate hope rising to struggle against the terror he felt. Oponn had entered the gambit, and in such reaches of power the life of a city and those within it meant nothing. He glared at Kruppe. «Gather the group, then. All you've named. They've served my interests for a long time, and they must do so now, above all other concerns. Do you understand me?»

«Kruppe will convey your insistence. Rallick perchance is bound to Guild duties, while Coll, given purpose in life once again, might well steady his gaze and tread and take this mission to heart. Master Baruk? What is the mission, by the way?»

«Protect the Coinbearer. Watch him, mark whose face rests on him benign or foul. I must know if the Lady has him, or the Lord. And, Kruppe, for this, find Rallick. If the Lord claims the Coinbearer, the assassin's talents will be required.»

Kruppe blinked. «Understood. Alas, may mercy smile upon young Crokus.»

«Crokus?» Baruk frowned. «That's a name I know.»

Kruppe's face remained blank.

«Never mind. Very well, Kruppe.» He turned back to the window once again. «Keep me informed.»

«As always, Baruk, Kruppe's friend.» The man bowed. «And thank you for the wine, it was most delicious.»

Baruk heard the door open then close. He gazed down the street. He'd managed to clamp a hold on his fear. Oponn had a way of making ruins of the most finely wrought plans. Baruk despised that prospect of chance operating in his affairs. He could no longer rely on his ability to predict, to prepare contingencies, to work out every possibility and seek out the one best suited to his desires. As the Coin spun, thus the city.

Added to this the mysterious ways of the Empress. Baruk rubbed his brow. He'd have to instruct Roald to bring him some healing tea. His headache was reaching debilitating proportions. As he brought his hand down past his face his eyes caught a flash of red. He raised both palms into view. Red ink stained them. He leaned forward on the window-sill.

Through a sparkling cloud of dust, Darujhistan's rooftops sprawled, and the harbour beyond. «And you, Empress,» he whispered. «I know you're here, somewhere. Your pawns move unseen as yet, but I will find them.

Be sure of that, with or without Oponn's damned luck.»

BOOK THREE-THE MISSION

Marionettes dance afield beneath masterly hands-

I stumble among them crossed by the strings in tangled two-step and curse all these fools in their mad pirouette-

I shall not live as they do oh, no, leave me in my circled dance-

these unbidden twitchings you see I swear on Hood's Grave is artistry in motion

Sayings of the Fool Theny Bule (b?)