Gardens of the Moon

CHAPTER TWENTY

Murillio wondered again at rallick's healed wound. He'd already concluded that whatever magic-deadening powder of Baruk's the assassin had used had been responsible for the healing. Nevertheless, much blood had been lost, and Rallick would need time to recover-time they didn't have. Was the assassin capable of killing Orr now?

In answer to his own question, Murillio laid a hand on the rapier at his side. He strode down the empty street, cleaving the low-lying mists that swirled like incandescent cloaks in the gaslight. Dawn was still two hours away. As was the Daru custom, the new year's celebrations would begin with sunrise, lasting through the day and well into the night.

He walked through a silent city, as if he were the last of the living yet to flee the past year's turmoil, and now shared the world with ghosts tolled among the year's dead. The Five Tusks had slipped behind in the ancient cycle, and taking its place was the Year of the Moon's Tears.

Murillio mused on such obscure, arcane titles. A massive stone disc in Majesty Hall marked the Cycle of the Age, naming each year in accordance with its mysterious moving mechanisms.

As a child, he'd thought the wheel magical in how it spun slowly as the year rolled by, coming into the new year aligned precisely with the dawn whether there was cloud in the sky or not. Mammot had since explained to him that the wheel was in fact a machine. It had been a gift to Darujhistan over a thousand years ago, by a man named Icarium. It was Mammot's belief that Icarium had Jaghut blood. By all accounts he'd ridden a Jaghut horse, and a Trell strode at his side-clear evidence, Mammot asserted, to add to the wonder of the wheel itself, for the Jaghut were known to have been skilled at such creations.

Murillio wondered at the significance of the names each year bore.

The close association of the Five Tusks with Moon's Tears held prophecy, according to the Seers. The Boar Tennerock's tusks were named Hate, Love, Laughter, War and Tears. Which Tusk would prove dominant in the year? The new year's name provided the answer. Murillio shrugged.

He viewed such astrology with a sceptical eye. How could a man of a thousand years ago-Jaghut or otherwise-have predicted such things?

Still, he admitted to more than a few qualms. The arrival of Moon's Spawn threw the new year's title into a different light, and he knew that the local scholars-particularly those who moved in the noble circles-had become an agitated and short-tempered lot. Quite unlike their usual patronizing selves.

Murillio turned a corner on his approach to the Phoenix Inn, and collided with a short, fat man in a red coat. Both grunted, and three large boxes that the man had been carrying fell between them, spilling out their contents.

«Aye, why, Murillio! Such fortune as Kruppe is known for! Thus does your search end, here in this dank, dark street where even the rats shun the shadow. What? Is something the matter, friend Murillio?»

He stared down at the objects on the cobbles at his feet. Slowly, Murillio, asked, «What are these for, Kruppe?»

Kruppe stepped forward and frowned down at the three expertly carved masks. «Gifts, friend Murillio, of course. For you and Rallick Nom. After all,» he looked up with a beatific smile, «the Lady Sinital's f?te demands the finest in workmanship, the subtlest of design perfectly mated with ironic intent. Don't you think Kruppe's taste is sufficiently expensive? Do you fear embarrassment?»

«You'll not distract me this time,» Murillio growled. «First of all, there

«Indeed!» Kruppe replied, bending down to pick one up. He brushed spatters of mud from the painted face. «This is Kruppe's own. Well chosen, Kruppe pronounces with certain aplomb.»

Murillio's eyes hardened. «You're not coming, Kruppe.»

«Well, of course Kruppe will attend! Do you think Lady Sinital would ever show herself if her long-time acquaintance, Kruppe the First, was not in attendance? Why, she'd wither with shame!»

«Dammit, you've never even met Sinital!»

«Not relevant to Kruppe's argument, friend Murillio. Kruppe has been acquainted with Sinital's existence for many years. Such association is made better, nay, pristine, for the fact that she has not met Kruppe, nor Kruppe her. And, in final argument designed to end all discussion, here,» he pulled from his sleeve a parchment scroll tied in blue silk ribbon, «Kruppe's invitation, signed by the Lady herself.» Murillio made a grab for it but Kruppe replaced it deftly in his sleeve.

«Rallick will kill you,» Murillio said levelly.

«Nonsense.» Kruppe placed the mask over his face. «How will the lad ever recognize Kruppe?»

Murillio studied the man's round body, the faded red waistcoat, gathered cuffs, and the short oily curls atop his head. «Never mind.» He sighed.

«Excellent,» Kruppe said. «Now, please accept these two masks, gifts from your friend Kruppe. A trip is saved, and Baruk need not wait any longer for a secret message that must not be mentioned.» He replaced his mask in its box, then spun round to study the eastern skyline. «Off to yon alchemist's abode, then. Good evening, friend-»

«Wait a minute,» Murillio said, grasping Kruppe's arm and turning him round. «Have you seen Coll?»

«Why, of course. The man sleeps a deep, recovering sleep from his ordeals. «Twas healed magically, Sulty said. By some stranger, yet. Coll himself was brought in by yet a second stranger, who found a third stranger, who in turn brought a fifth stranger in the company of the stranger who healed Coll. And so it goes, friend Murillio. Strange doings, indeed. Now, Kruppe must be off. Goodbye, friend-»

«Not yet,» Murillio snarled. He glanced around. The street was still empty. He leaned close. «I've worked some things out, Kruppe. Circle Breaker contacting me put everything into order in my mind. I know who you are.»

«Aaahh Kruppe cried, withdrawing. «I'll not deny it, then! It's true, Murillio, Kruppe is Lady Sinital, connivingly disguised.»

«Not this time! No distractions. You're the Eel, Kruppe. All this blubbering, sweaty meek-mouse stuff is just an act, isn't it? You've got half this city in your pocket, Eel.»

Eyes wide, Kruppe snatched the handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped his brow. He wrung sweat from it, droplets spattering on the cobbles, then a veritable torrent splashed on to the stones.

Murillio barked a laugh. «No more magical cantrips, Kruppe. I've known you a long time, remember? I've seen you cast spells. You've got everybody fooled, but not me. I'm not telling, though. You don't have to worry about that.» He smiled. «Then again, if you don't come out with it here and now, I might get annoyed.»

Sighing, Kruppe returned the handkerchief to his sleeve. «Annoyance is uncalled for,» he said, waving a hand and fluttering his fingers.

Murillio blinked, suddenly dizzy. He rubbed his forehead and frowned. What had they just been talking about? It couldn't have been important. «Thanks for the masks, friend. They'll come in handy, I'm sure.» His frown deepened. What a confusing thing to say! He wasn't even angry that Kruppe had figured things out; nor that the fat little man would attend the F?te. How odd! «Good that Coll's all right, isn't it? Well,» he mumbled, «I'd better head back to check on Rallick.»

Smiling, Kruppe nodded. «Until the F?te, then, fare you well, Murillio, Kruppe's finest and dearest friend.»

«Goodnight,» Murillio replied, turning to retrace his steps. He lacked sleep. All these late nights were taking their toll. That was the problem.

«Of course,» he muttered, then began to walk.

His features darkening, Baruk studied the Tiste And? lounging in the chair across from him. «I don't think it's a very good idea, Rake.»

The Lord raised an eyebrow. «As I understand such things, the event includes the wearing of disguises,» he said, with a slight smile. «Do you fear I lack taste?»

«I've no doubt your attire will be suitable,» Baruk snapped. «Particularly if you choose the costume of a Tiste And? warlord. It's the Council that worries me. They're not all fools.»

«I would be surprised if they were,» Rake said. «Indeed, I would have you point out the cunning ones. I don't imagine you will refute my suspicion that there are those within the Council seeking to pave the way for the Empress-for a price, of course. Power comes to mind. Nobles delving in merchant trades no doubt drool at the prospect of Empire trade. Am I far off the mark, Baruk?»

«No,» the alchemist admitted sourly. «But we have that under control.»

«Ah, yes,» Rake said. «This brings to mind my other reason for wishing to attend this Lady Sinital's F?te. As you said, the city's power will be there. I assume this includes such mages as are in your T'orrud Cabal?»

«Some will attend,» Baruk conceded. «But I must tell you, Anomander Rake, your d6bicles with the Assassins» Guild has made a good number of them rue our alliance. They'll not appreciate your presence in the least.»

Rake's smile returned. «To the extent that they will reveal their community to cunning Council members? I think not.» He rose in a fluid motion. «No, I would like to attend this F?te. My own people hold little to such social affairs. There are times when I grow weary of their dour preoccupations.»

Baruk's gaze focused on the Tiste And?. «You suspect a convergence, don't you? A fell gathering of powers, like iron filings to a lodestone.»

«With so much power gathered in one place,» Rake admitted, «it's likely. I'd rather be on hand in such circumstances.» His eyes held Baruk's, their colour flowing from dun green to amber. «Also, if this event is as publicly known as you suggest, then the Empire's agents within the city will know of it. Should they wish to cut out Darujhistan's heart, they'll have no better opportunity.»

Baruk barely repressed a shiver. «Extra guards have been hired, of course. If an Empire Claw should strike, they will find their hands full with the T'orrud mages besides.» He thought for a time, then nodded wearily. «Very well, Rake. Sinital will accept you as my guest. You will wear an effective disguise?»

«Naturally.»

Baruk climbed to his feet and strode to the window. Beyond the sky had begun to pale. «And so it begins,» he whispered.

Rake joined him. «What begins?»

«The new year,» the alchemist replied. «Past is the Five Tusks. The dawn you see marks the birth of the Year of the Moon's Tears.»

Lord Anomander Rake stiffened.

Baruk noticed. «Indeed. An unusual coincidence, though I would put little weight upon it. The titles were devised over a millennium ago, by a visitor to these lands.»

When Rake spoke his voice was a ravaged whisper. «Icarium's gifts. I recognize the style. Five Tusks, Moon's Tears-the Wheel is his, correct?»

Eyes wide, Baruk hissed his surprise between his teeth. A dozen questions struggled to be uttered first, but the Lord continued. «In the future, I'd suggest you heed Icarium's gifts-all of them. A thousand years is not so long a time, Alchemist. Not so long a time. Icarium. last visited me eight hundred years ago, in the company of the Trell Mappo, and Osric-or Osserc, as the local worshippers call him.» Rake smiled bitterly. «Osric and I argued, as I recall, and it was all Brood could do to keep us apart. It was an old argument.

into grey. He fell silent, lost in memories.

There came a knock at the door and both turned to see Roald enter and bow.

«Master Baruk, Mammot has awakened and appears refreshed. More,» his almond eyes shaded, «your agent Kruppe has delivered a verbal message. He extends his regret that he cannot deliver it to you in person. Do you wish to receive it now?»

«Yes,» Baruk said.

Roald bowed again. «The Eel will contact you the eve of this day. At Lady Sinital's F?te. The Eel further finds the prospect of shared information and co-operation intriguing. That is all.»

Baruk brightened. «Excellent.»

«Shall I bring Mammot to you, Master?»

«If he's able.»

«He is. A moment, then.» Roald left.

The alchemist smiled. «As I said, «he laughed, «everyone will be there, and in this case, everyone is an appropriate term.» His smile broadened at Rake's blank look. «The Eel, Lord. Darujhistan's master-spy, a figure without a face.»

«A masked face,» the Tiste And? reminded him.

«If my suspicions are correct,» Baruk said, «the mask won't help the Eel one bit.»

The door opened again and there stood Mammot, looking fit and full of energy. He nodded to Baruk. «Withdrawal proved easier than I'd imagined,» he said, without preamble. His bright gaze fixed on Anomander Rake and he smiled, then bowed. «Greetings, Lord. I've looked forward to this meeting ever since Baruk brought to us the offer of alliance.»

Rake glanced at Baruk and raised an eyebrow.

The alchemist said, «Mammot numbers among the Vorrud Cabal.» He faced the old man again. «We were deeply worried, friend, given the Elder mageries at play around the barrow."

«I was snared for a time,» Mammot admitted, «but at the extreme edges of the Omtose Phellack influence. Quiescent regard proved the correct course, as the one stirring within did not sense me.»

«How much time do we have?» Baruk asked tightly.

«Two, perhaps three days. Even for a Jaghut Tyrant, it is an effort to make the return journey to life.» Mammot's eyes fell upon the mantelpiece. «Ah, your carafe of wine awaits as is usual. Excellent.» He strode over to the fireplace. «Have you word of my nephew, by any chance?»

Baruk frowned. «No, should I have? The last time I met the child was, what, five years ago?»

«Mmm,» Mammot said, raising his freshly filled goblet and taking a mouthful. «Well, Crokus has grown somewhat since then, I assure you. I hope the lad's all right. He was-»

Baruk threw up a hand and staggered-a step forward. «What?» he demanded in sudden fear. «What's his name? Crokus? Crokus!» The alchemist rapped his forehead. «Oh, what a fool I've been!»

Mammot's face crinkled into a wise smile. «Oh, you mean the matter of the Coin Bearer, do you?»

Shock registered in Baruk's face. «You knew?»

Standing to one side, his charcoal-grey eyes fixed intently on Mammot, Rake said, in a strangely flat tone, «Mammot, forgive me for interrupting. Will you be attending Lady Sinital's F?te?»

The old man nodded easily. «Of course.»

«Very good,» Rake said, with something like anticipation. He pulled his leather gloves from his belt. «We'll speak then.»

Baruk had no time to think about Rake's sudden departure. It was his first mistake of the day.

A woman with a shaved head and long flowing robes ran shrieking from the gates, a shred of brown fur streaming from one hand. Adjunct Lorn stepped back to let the priestess pass. She watched as the woman plunged into the crowd behind her. The festival had spilled out beyond Darujhistan's walls, and Worrytown's main street was a streaming mob she'd spent the last half-hour pushing through on her way to the gates.

Absently she rubbed the rapier wound in her shoulder. Her journey into the barrow seemed to have slowed the healing, and an ache had settled inside the puncture, cold as the ice in the barrow's tunnel. Eyeing the two guards stationed at the gate, she approached warily.

Only one seemed to pay her any attention, and this man spared her but the briefest glance before returning his attention to the Worrytown mob.

Lorn entered the city unremarked, simply one more traveller come to attend the spring festival.

Immediately within the gates the avenue split around the base of a squat hill, on which crouched a half-ruined temple and tower. Off to her right rose another hill, evidently a garden, given the wide steps ascending to the summit, covered in trees, and the many fetishes and banners tied to branches and the gas-lamps.

Lorn's sense of those she sought was strong, unerring. Once past the hills, she could see an inner wall. Sergeant Whiskeyjack and his squad were somewhere beyond it, in the lower city. Lorn strode through the surging crowds, one hand hitched in her sword belt, the other massaging the puffed red flesh around her wound.

The guard at Worry Gate pushed himself from the wall he had been leaning against and paced a slow circle on the cobblestones. He paused to adjust his peaked helmet, loosening the strap a notch.

The other guard, an older man, bandy-legged and short, approached.

«Those fools out there making you uneasy?» he asked with a grin more gaps than teeth.

The first man glanced through the gateway. «Had a near-riot here a couple of years back,» he said.

«I was there,» the old man said, hawking on to the stones. «We had to pull the hoods off our polearms, draw some blood. That sent them packing, and I don't think the lesson's gone on them. I wouldn't worry much. This ain't your regular duty, is it?»

«No, just filling in time for a friend.»

«That's the way of it, isn't it? What's your usual round?»

«Midnight till the third bell, Despot's Barbican,» Circle Breaker replied.

He adjusted his helmet again, hoping the unseen friendly eyes had marked his signal. That woman who had passed through a few minutes ago had matched the Eel's description perfectly. Circle Breaker knew he wasn't mistaken.

She'd looked the warrior, dressed as a mercenary and trying to hide the blood-stains of a wound on her shoulder. His searching glance had been but momentary. Years of practice, however, made it sufficient. He'd caught everything the Eel's messenger had told him to look for.

«That's a hell of a watch,» the old man said beside him, turning to squint up at Despot's Park. «And you were here t» meet the dawn.» He wagged his head. «The bastards got us working too hard these days, what with the city infiltrated with Empire spies and the like.»

«It doesn't get any better,» Circle Breaker agreed.

«I'm here for another three hours, and you think they give me some time to join my wife and kids in the festival?» The old man spat again.

«No way. Old Berrute's off to stand around watching other people having fun in some bloody estate.»

Circle Breaker held his breath, then sighed. «Lady Sinital's F?te, I suppose.»

«Damn right. Bloody Councilmen chuffing around with all their stinking airs. And me with sore feet and all, standing like a statue.»

This was a bit of luck, Circle Breaker smiled to himself. His companion's next station was precisely what the Eel had wanted for Circle Breaker. Better yet, the old man was complaining about it. «They need those statues,» he said. «Keeps them secure.» He stepped close to Berrute.

«Didn't you tell the sergeant about your bad feet?»

«What's the point?» Berrute complained. «He just delivered them orders, he didn't come up with thein.»

Circle Breaker looked up the street, as if considering something, then he laid a hand on the other's shoulder and met his gaze. «Look, I don't have any family. For me, today's just another day. I'll stand in for you, Berrute. Next time I want some time off, though, I'll come calling.»

Genuine relief lit the old man's eyes. «Nerruse bless you,» he said, grinning again. «It's a deal, friend. Hey, I don't even know your name!»

Circle Breaker smiled, then told him.

With most of the revelry out in the streets, the interior of Quip's Bar was all but deserted. Adjunct Lorn paused inside the doorway and waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. A few desultory voices drifted out to her, mingling with the clatter of wooden cards.

She entered the low-ceilinged chamber. A dishevelled old woman watched her dully from behind the counter. Against the far wall was a table at which sat three men. Copper coins glittered in the lamplight, amid pools of spilled beer on the tabletop. The men held cards in their hands.

The man with his back against the wall, wearing a scorched leather cap, looked up to meet Lorn's eyes. He gestured to an empty chair. «Have a seat, Adjunct,» he said. «Join in the game.»

Lorn blinked, then hid her shock with a shrug. «I don't gamble,» she said, lowering herself into the rickety chair.

The man examined his cards. «Not what I meant,» he said.

The one seated on her left muttered, «Meant a different game, did Hedge.»

She turned to regard him. Skinny, short, with massive wrists. «And what's your name, soldier?» she asked quietly.

«Fiddler. The guy losing his coins is Mallet. We've been expecting you.»

«So I gather,» Lorn said drily, leaning back. «Your intelligence impresses me, gentlemen. Is the sergeant nearby?»

«Making the rounds,» Fiddler said. «Should be by in ten minutes or so. We've got the back room in this rat trap. Right up against the Tier wall.»

Hedge added, «Me and Fid dug through that damn wall, seven bloody feet thick at its base. An abandoned house on the Daru side.» He grinned.

«It's our back door.»

«So you're the saboteurs. And Mallet? A healer, correct?»

Mallet nodded, still contemplating his cards. «C'mon, Fiddler,» he said, «it's your game. Let's hear the next rule.»

Fiddler sat forward. «Knight of House Dark is the wild card,» he said.

«That's the opening suit, too. Unless you're holding the Virgin of Death. If you get her you can open with half ante and double up if you win the round.»

Mallet slapped down the Virgin of Death. He tossed a single copper coin into the centre of the table. «Let's run it through, then.»

Fiddler dealt the man another card. «We ante up now, Hedge, two coppers apiece and High Hell come the Herald of Death.»

Lorn watched the bizarre game proceed. These men were using a Deck of Dragons. Astonishing. The man Fiddler was inventing the rules as they went along, and yet she watched the cards merge into a pattern on the tabletop. Her brows knitted thoughtfully.

«You got the Hound on the run,» Fiddler said, pointing at the latest card placed on the table by Mallet. «Knight of Dark's close, I can feel it.»

«But what about this damned Virgin of Death?» groused the healer.

«She's had her teeth pulled. Take a look, the Rope's right outa the picture, ain't he?» Fiddler laid another card. «And there's the Dragon bastard himself, sword all smoking and black as a moonless night. That's what's got the Hound scampering.»

«Wait a minute,» Hedge cried, ramming down a card atop the Knight of Dark. «You said the Captain of Light's rising, right?»

Fiddler concentrated on the pattern. «He's right, Mallet. We pay over two coppers each automatically. That Captain's already dancing on the Knight's shadow-»

«Excuse me,» Lorn said loudly. The three men looked at her. «Are you a Talent, Fiddler? Should you be using this deck?»

Fiddler scowled. «It ain't your business, Adjunct. We been playing for years, nobody's tossed a dagger our way. You want in, just say so. Here, I'll give you your first card.»

Before she could protest he placed a card before her, face up. She stared down at it.

«Now, ain't that odd?» Fiddler remarked. «Throne, inverted. You owe us all ten gold each-a year's pay for all of us, hell of a coincidence.»

Hedge snorted loudly. «Also happens to be the Empire Guilt Coin paid to our kin once we're confirmed dead. Thanks a lot, Fid.»

«Take the coin and shut up,» Fiddler snapped. «We ain't dead yet.»

«I'm still holding a card,» Mallet said.

Fiddler rolled his eyes. «So let's see the damn thing, then.»

The healer set the card down.

«Orb.» Fiddler laughed. «True sight and judgement closes this game, wouldn't you know it?»

Lorn sensed a presence at her back. She turned slowly to find a bearded man behind her. His flat grey eyes held hers. «I'm Whiskeylack,» he said softly. «Good morning, Adjunct, and welcome to Darujhistan.»

He found a nearby chair and pulled it to the table, sitting down beside Hedge. «You'll want a report, right? Well, we're still trying to contact the Assassin's Guild. All the mining's done, ready for the order. One squad member lost thus far. In other words, we've been damn lucky. There are Tiste And? in the city, hunting us.»

«Who have you lost, Sergeant?» Lorn asked.

«The recruit. Sorry was her name.»

«Dead?»

«Been missing for a few days now.»

Lorn clenched her teeth to bite back a curse. «So you don't know if she's dead?»

«No. Is there a problem, Adjunct? She was just a recruit. Even if she'd been nabbed by the guard, there's scant little she could tell them. Besides, we've heard no such news. More likely some thugs scrubbed her in some back alley-we've been scurrying down a lot of rat-holes trying to find these local assassins.» He shrugged. «It's a risk you live with, that's all.»

«Sorry was a spy,» Lorn explained. «A very good one, Sergeant. You can be certain that no thug killed her. No, she's not dead. She's hiding, because she knew I'd come looking for her. I've been on her trail for three years. I want her.»

«If we'd had a hint of all this,» Whiskeyjack said tightly, «it could've been arranged, Adjunct. But you kept it to yourself, and that makes you on your own now.» His eyes hardened on her. «Whether we contact the Guild or not, we detonate the mines before tomorrow's dawn, and then we're out of here.»

Lorn drew herself up. «I am Adjunct to the Empress, Sergeant. As of now this mission is under my direction. You will take orders from me. All this independent crap is over, understand?» For a moment she almost thought she saw a flash of triumph in the man's eyes. A second look revealed it to be no more than the expected anger.

«Understood, Adjunct,» Whiskeyjack replied curtly. «What are your orders?»

«I am serious in this, Sergeant,» she warned. «And I don't care how angry this makes you. Now, I suggest we retire to more private surroundings.» She rose. «Your men can remain here.»

Whiskeyjack stood. «Of course, Adjunct. We have the back room. If you will follow me.»

Lorn reached down to the bed's top blanket. «There is blood here, Sergeant.» She turned to regard the man as he closed the door.

He faced her. «One of my men had a brush with a Tiste And? assassin-mage. He'll recover.»

«Highly unlikely, Sergeant. The Tiste And? are all with Caladan Brood in the north.» Her eyes widened in disbelief. «You don't mean to suggest that the Lord of Moon's Spawn himself has left his fortress? To do what? Hunt down Malazan spies? Don't be absurd.»

Whiskeyjack scowled. «Corporal Kalam and my squad mage had a rooftop engagement with at least half a dozen Tiste And?. That my men survived makes it highly unlikely that the Moon's lord was anywhere in the vicinity, doesn't it, Adjunct? Put it together. The Moon stations itself just south of the city. Its lord strikes an alliance with Darujhistan's rulers, and their first task is to wipe out the local Assassins» Guild. Why? To prevent people like us from contacting them and offering a contract. And, so far, it's worked.»

Lorn thought for a time, then she said, «So if the Guild cannot be contacted, why not do the assassinations yourselves? Your Corporal Kalam ranked among the best in the Claw before his: his falling out. Why not take out the city's rulers?»

The man folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall beside the door. «We've been considering that, Adjunct. And we're a step ahead of you. Right now, one of my men is negotiating for us to work as private strong-arms for a highbrow F?te this evening. Everybody who's anybody is supposed to attend-Council members, High Mages, the works. My saboteurs have enough left-over munitions to make it a party this city will have a hard time forgetting.»

Lorn struggled against a growing sense of frustration. As much as she'd intended to take command of things, it seemed that this Whiskeyjack had been doing just fine up until now, given the circumstances. She suspected she could not have done things any better, though she still doubted the story about the Tiste And?. «Why on earth,» she asked finally, «would an estate hire a bunch of strangers as guards?»

«Oh, there'll be city soldiers there as well. But none of them is a Barghast.» Whiskeyjack smiled cynically. «Titillation factor, Adjunct. It's what makes the nobility drool. Look there, a big tattooed barbarian glowering down at them. Exciting, yes?» He shrugged. «It's a risk, but one worth taking. Unless, of course, you have a better idea, Adjunct?»

She heard the challenge in his tone. Had she thought about it, she would have realized long before now that her title and power would not intimidate this man. He'd stood at Dassem Ultor's side, arguing tactics with the Sword of the Empire in the midst of battle. And it seemed that demotion to sergeant had failed to break this man-that much she'd gathered from the Bridgeburners» reputation at Pale. He would not hesitate to challenge her every command if he found reason to do so.

«Your plan is sound,» she said. «Tell me the name of this estate.»

«Some woman named Lady Sinital. I don't know the family name, but everybody seems to know her. Said to be a real looker, with influence in the Council.»

«Very well,» Lorn said, adjusting her cloak. «I'll return in two hours, Sergeant. There are other matters I must attend to. Be certain that all is ready-detonation procedures included. If you don't get hired, we'll have to find another way of being at that f?te.» She strode to the door.

«Adjunct?»

She turned.

Whiskeyjack walked to the back wall and pulled aside a tattered hanging. «This tunnel emerges into another house. From it you can enter the Daru District.»

«Unnecessary.» Lorn was irritated by his condescending tone.

As soon as she was gone Quick Ben scrambled from the tunnel.

«Dammit Sergeant» he muttered. «You almost had her walking in on me!»

«No chance,» Whiskeyjack observed. «In fact, I made certain she wouldn't use it. Anything from Kalam?»

Quick Ben paced the small room. «Not yet. But he's about to run out of patience.» He turned to the sergeant. «So? Do you think she was fooled?»

«Fooled?» Whiskeyjack laughed. «She was reeling.»

«Paran said she was going to drop something off,» Quick Ben said.

«Did she?»

«Not yet.»

«It's getting tight, Sergeant. Damn tight.»

The other door opened and Trotts entered, his filed teeth exposed in something between a smile and a grimace.

«Success?» Whiskeyjack asked.

Trotts nodded.

As the afternoon waned Crokus and Apsalar waited atop the tower's platform. Every now and then they peered over the edge to watch the festivities. There was a taste of mania among the crowds below, as if they danced on the rim of desperation. In spite of the season's rejoicing, the shadow of the Malazan Empire hung over all. Indeed, with Moon's Spawn immediately to the south, Darujhistan's place between the two forces was obvious to everyone.

«Somehow,» Crokus muttered, as he watched the crowds moving down the streets like churning rivers, «Darujhistan seems smaller. Almost insignificant.»

«It looks huge to me,» Apsalar said. «It's one of the biggest cities I've ever seen,» she said. «As big as Unta, I think.»

He stared at her. She'd been saying strange things lately, which did not seem right coming from a fishergirl from a small coastal village.

That's the Empire capital, isn't it?»

She frowned, which made her look older. «Yes. Only I've never been there.»

«Well, how could you know how big it is, then?»

«I'm not sure, Crokus.»

Possession, Coll had said. Two sets of memory warred in the woman, and the war was getting worse. He wondered if Mammot had shown up yet. For a moment he came near to regretting their escape from Meese and Irilta. But then his thoughts turned to what was to come. He sat down on the platform and propped himself against the low wall. He stared at the assassin's body across from him. The blood that had been spilled had blackened under the hot sun. A trail of droplets crossed the floor to the stairs. Clearly, this assassin's killer had himself been wounded. Yet Crokus did not feel in danger, up here, although he wasn't sure why. «For an abandoned belfry tower, this place had witnessed a lot of drama lately.»

«Are we waiting for night?» Apsalar asked.

Crokus nodded.

«Then we find this Challice?»

«That's right. The D'Arles will be at Lady Sinital's F?te, I'm sure of it. The estate has an enormous garden, almost a forest. It goes right up to the back wall. Getting in should be easy.»

«Won't you be noticed once you join the guests, though?»

«I'll be dressed as a thief. Everybody will be wearing costumes. Besides, there'll be hundreds of people there. It might take an hour or two, but I'll find her.»

«And then?»

«I'll think of something,» Crokus said.

Apsalar stretched out her legs on the paving stones and crossed her arms. «And I'm supposed to hide in the bushes, huh?»

He shrugged. «Maybe Uncle Mammot will be there,» he said. «Then everything will be all right.»

«Why?»

«Because that's what Coll said,» Crokus shot back, exasperated.

supposed to tell her she'd been possessed for who knew how long? «We work out a way to get you home,» he explained. «That's what you want, right?»

She nodded slowly, as if no longer certain of that. «I miss my father,» she said.

To Crokus, Apsalar sounded as though she was trying to convince herself. He'd looked at her when they'd arrived, thinking, Why not? And he had to admit to himself now that her company wasn't bad. Except for all the questions, of course. Mind, what if he'd been in her situation, waking up thousands of leagues from home? It'd be terrifying. Would he have held up as well as she seemed to be doing?

«I'm feeling all right,» she said, watching him. «It's as if something inside is keeping things together. I can't explain it any better, but it's like a smooth, black stone. Solid and warm, and whenever I start getting scared it takes me inside. And then everything's fine again.» She added, «I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push you away.»

«Never mind,» he said.

Within the shadows of the stair-well, Serrat studied the two figures out on the platform. Enough was enough. She'd opened her Kurald Galain Warren into a defensive layering of wards around her. No more of these invisible enemies. If they wanted her, they'd have to show themselves.

And then she'd kill them. And as for the Coin Bearer and the girl, where could they hope to escape to, up here on this tower?

She unsheathed her daggers and prepared for her attack. A dozen wards protected her back, all along the staircase. An approach from there was impossible.

Two sharp points touched her flesh, one under her chin and the other beneath her left shoulder blade. The Tiste And? froze. And then she heard a voice close to her ear-a voice she recognized.

«Give Rake this warning, Serrat. He'll only get one, and the same for you. The Coin Bearer shall not be harmed. The games are done. Try this again and you'll die.»

«You bastard!» she exploded. «My lord's anger-»

«Will be in vain. We both know who sends this message, don't we? And, as Rake well knows, he's not as far away as he once was.» The point beneath her chin moved away to allow her to nod, then returned. «Good. Deliver the message, then, and hope we don't meet again.»

«This will not be forgotten,» Serrat promised, shaking with rage.

A low chuckle answered her. «Compliments of the Prince, Serrat. Take it up with our mutual friend.»

The daggers left her flesh. Serrat exhaled a long breath, then sheathed her weapons. She snapped a Kurald Galain spell and vanished.

Crokus jumped at a faint plopping sound from the stairwell. He laid his hands on his knives, tensing.

«What's wrong?» Apsalar said.

«Shhh. Wait.» He felt his heart pound hard against his chest. «I'm ducking at shadows,» he said, sitting back. «Well, we're off soon, anyway.»

It was an age of wind, sweeping across the grass plains beneath a pewter sky, a wind whose thirst assailed all life, mindless, unrelenting like a beast that did not know itself.

Struggling in his mother's wake, it was Raest's first lesson in power. In the hunt for domination that would shape his life, he saw the many ways of the wind-its subtle sculpting of stone over hundreds and then thousands of years, and its raging gales that flattened forests-and found closest to his heart the violent power of the wind's banshee fury.

Raest's mother had been the first to flee his deliberate shaping of power. She'd denied him to his face, proclaiming the Sundering of Blood and thus cutting him free. That the ritual had broken her he disregarded.

It was unimportant. He who would dominate must learn early that those resisting his command should be destroyed. Failure was her price, not his.

While the Jaghut feared community, pronouncing society to be the birthplace of tyranny-of the flesh and the spirit-and citing their own bloody history as proof, Raest discovered a hunger for it. The power he commanded insisted upon subjects. Strength was ever relative, and he could not dominate without the company of the dominated.

At first he sought to subjugate other Jaghut, but more often than not they either escaped him or he was forced to kill them. Such contests held only momentary satisfaction. Raest gathered beasts around him, bending nature to his will. But nature withered and died in bondage, and so found an escape he could not control. In his anger he laid waste to the land, driving into extinction countless species. The earth resisted him, and its power was immense. Yet it was directionless and could not overwhelm Raest in its ageless tide. His was a focused power, precise in its destruction and pervasive in its effect.

Then into his path came the first of the Imass, creatures who struggled against his will, defying slavery and yet living on. Creatures of boundless, pitiful hope. For Raest, he had found in them the glory of domination, for with each Imass that broke he took another. Their link with nature was minimal, for the Imass themselves played the game of tyranny over their lands. They could not defeat him.

He fashioned an empire of sorts, bereft of cities yet plagued with the endless dramas of society, its pathetic victories and inevitable failure. The community of enslaved Imass thrived in this quagmire of pettines They even managed to convince themselves that they possessed freedom, a will of their own that could shape destiny. They elected champion. They tore down their champions once failure draped its shroud over them. They ran in endless circles and called it growth, emergence, knowledge. While over them all, a presence invisible to their eyes, Raest flexed his will. His greatest joy came when his slaves proclaimed him god-though they knew him not-and constructed temples to serve him and organized priesthoods whose activities mimicked Raest's tyranny with such cosmic irony that the Jaghut could only shake his head.

It should have been an empire to last for millennia, and its day of dying should have been by his own hand, when he at last tired of it.

Raest had never imagined that other Jaghut would find his activities abhorrent, that they would risk themselves and their own power on behalf of these short-lived, small-minded Imass. Yet what astonished Raest more than anything else was that when the Jaghut came they came in numbers, in community. A community whose sole purpose of existence was to destroy his empire, to imprison him.

He had been unprepared.

The lesson was learned, and no matter what the world had become since that time, Raest was ready for it. His limbs creaked at first, throbbing with dull aches bridged by sharp pangs. The effort of digging himself from the frozen earth had incapacitated him for a time, but finally he felt ready to walk the tunnel that opened out into a new land.

Preparation. Already he'd initiated his first moves. He sensed that others had come to him, had freed the path of Omtose Phellack wards and seals.

Perhaps his worshippers remained, fanatics who had sought his release for generations, and even now awaited him beyond the barrow.

The missing Finnest would be his first priority. Much of his power had been stored within the seed, stripped from him and stored there by the Jaghut betrayers. It had not been carried far, and there was nothing that could prevent his recovering it. Omtose Phellack no longer existed in the land above-he could feel its absence like an airless void. Nothing could oppose him now.

Preparation. Raest's withered, cracked face twisted into a savage grin, his lower tusks splitting desiccated skin. The powerful must gather other power, subjugate it to their own will, then direct it unerringly. His moves had already begun.

He sloshed through the slush now covering the barrow's muddy floor.

Before him rose the slanted wall that marked the tomb's barrier. Beyond the lime-streaked earth waited a world to be enslaved. Raest gestured and the barrier exploded outward. Bright sunlight flared in the clouds of steam rolling around him, and he felt waves of cold, ancient air sweeping past him.

The Jaghut Tyrant walked into the light.

The Great Raven Crone rode the hot streams of wind high above the Gadrobi Hills. The burst of power that launched tons of earth and rocks a hundred feet into the sky elicited a cackle from her. She dipped a wing, eyes on the white pillar of steam, and banked towards it.

This, she laughed to herself, should prove interesting.

A wash of air pounded down on to her. Shrieking her outrage, Crone twisted and slid along the shunting wind. Massive shadows flowed over her. Her anger was swept away on a surge of excitement. Head craning, she beat the air with her wings and climbed again. In matters such as these, a proper point of view was essential. Crone climbed higher still, then cocked her head and looked down. By the light of the sun scales flashed iridescent from five ridged backs, but of the five one shone like fire. Sorcerous power bled in ripples from the web of their spread wings.

The dragons sailed silent over the landscape, closing on the billowing dust-cloud above the Jaghut tomb. Crone's black eyes fixed on the dragon that blazed red.

«Silanah!» she screamed, laughing. «Dragnipurake tna Draconiaes! Eleint, eleint!» The day of the Tiste And? had come.

Raest emerged into rich afternoon sunlight. Yellow-grassed hills rose in weathered humps in every direction but the one he faced. To the east behind a thinning curtain of drifting dust stretched an empty plain.

The Jaghut Tyrant grunted. Not so different after all. He raised his arms, feeling wind slide along his cabled muscles. He drew a breath, tasting the life-rich air. He quested lightly with his power and exulted in the waves of fear that answered it-answers that came from the mindless life beneath his feet or hiding in the grasses around him. But higher life, higher concentrations of power, he sensed nothing. He drove his senses down into the ground, seeking what dwelt there. Earth and bedrock, the sluggish molten darkness beneath, down, down to fi the sleeping goddess-young as far as the Jaghut Tyrant was concerned. «Shall I wake you?» he whispered. «Not yet. But I shall make you bleed.» His right hand closed into a fist.

He speared the goddess with pain, driving a fissure through the bedrock, feeling the gush of her blood, enough to make her stir but not awaken.

The line of hills to the north lifted skyward. Magma sprayed into the air amid a rising pillar of smoke, rock and ash. The earth shuddered even as the sound of the eruption swept over Raest in a fierce, hot wind. The Jaghut Tyrant smiled.

He studied the shattered ridge and breathed the heavy, sulphurous air, then turned about and strode west towards the highest hill in that his the not s air, that direction. His Finnest lay beyond it, perhaps three days» walk. He considered opening his Warren, then decided to wait until he reached the hill's summit. From that vantage point, he could better judge the Finnest's location.

Half-way up the slope he heard distant laughter. Raest stiffened just as the day darkened suddenly around him. On the sward before him he saw five enormous shadows sweeping up the slope, then beyond the hill's summit. The sunlight returned. The Jaghut Tyrant looked into the sky above him.

Five dragons banked in perfect formation, their heads dipping to watch him as they glided back in his direction. «Estideein eleint,» he whispered, in his Jaghut tongue. Four were black, barbed in silver along the wings and flying two to either side of the fifth dragon, this one red and twice at large as the others. «Silanah red-wings,» Raest muttered, eyes V&Tv~swin%. «Elder-born and true-blooded Tiarn, you lead Soletaken,4kintblood is alien to this world. I feel you all!» He raised fists to the sky. «Colder than the ice born of Jaghut hands, as dark as blindness-I feel you!»

He lowered his arms. «Harass me not, eleint. I cannot enslave you, but I will destroy you. Know that. I will drive you to the ground, each and all, and with my own hands I shall tear your hearts from your chests.»

His eyes narrowed on the four black dragons. «Soletaken. You would challenge me at the command of another. You would battle with me for no reason of your own. Ah, but if I were to command you I would not throw your lives away so carelessly. I would cherish you, Soletaken, I would give you causes worth believing in, show you the true rewards of power.» Raest scowled, as their derision swept through his mind. «So be it.» The dragons passed low overhead in silence, banking once again and disappearing behind the hills to the south. Raest spread his arms wide and unleashed his Warren. His flesh split as power flowed into him. His arms shed skin like ash. He both felt and heard hills crack all around him, the snapping of stone, the sundering of crags. To all sides the horizons blurred as dust curtained skyward. He faced south. «This is my power! Come to me!» A long minute passed. He frowned at the hills before him, then cried out and whirled to his right just as Silanah and the four black dragons, all less than ten feet above the ground, plunged over the summit of the hill he'd been climbing.

Raest screamed at the whirlwind of power battering him, his shrunken eyes locked on Silanah's blank, empty, deadly gaze-eyes as large as the Jaghut's head-as it bore down upon him with the speed of a springing viper. The red dragon's jaws opened wide and Raest found himself staring down the beast's throat.

He screamed a second time and released his power all at once.

The air detonated as the Warrens collided. Jagged shards of rock ripped in all directions. Starvald Demelain and Kurald Galain warred with Omtose Phellack in a savage maelstrom of will. Grasses, earth and rock withered to fine ash on all sides, and within the vortex stood Raest, his power roaring from him. Lashes of sorcery from the dragons lanced into his body, boring through his withered flesh.

The Jaghut Tyrant flayed his power like a scythe. Blood spattered the ground, sprayed in gouts. The dragons shrieked.

A wave of incandescent fire struck Raest from the right, solid as a battering fist. Howling, he was thrown through the air, landing in a bank of powdery ash. Silanah's fire raced over him, blackening what was left of his flesh. The Tyrant clambered upright, his body jerking uncontrollably as sorcery gouted from his right hand.

The ground shook as Raest's power hammered Silanah down, driving the dragon skidding and tumbling across the slope. The Tyrant's exultant roar was cut short as talons the length of a forearm crunched into him from behind. A second clawed foot joined the first, snapping through the bones of Raest's chest as if they were twigs. More talons flexed around him as a second dragon sought grip.

The Tyrant twisted helplessly as the claws lifted him into the air and started ripping his body apart. He dislocated his own shoulder in reaching round to dig his fingers into a sleek scaled shin. At the contact, Omtose Phellack surged into the dragon's leg, shattering bone, boiling blood. Raest laughed as the claws spasmed loose and he was flung away.

More bones snapped as he struck the ground, but it did not matter. His power was absolute, the vessel that carried it had little relevance. If need be, the Tyrant would find other bodies, bodies in the thousands.

He climbed once more to his feet. «Now,» he whispered, «I deliver death.»